art&ULLALJRENCfi 
JDUJSBAR 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


At  the  acre  of  twentv-four. 


Cbe  Ofc  and  Works  of 
Paul  Laurence  Dunbar 


CONTAINING 

HIS      COMPLETE       POETICAL 
WORKS,     HIS    BEST   SHORT 
STORIES,      NUMEROUS 
ANECDOTES  AND    A 
COMPLETE        BIO- 
GRAPHY OF  THE 
FAMOUS  POET. 

By 

Lida  Keck  Wiggins 

And  an  Introduction  by 
WILLIAM  DEAN  HOWELLS 

From  "Lyrics  of  Lowly  Life'* 

PROFUSELY  ILLUSTRATED  WITH 

OVER    HALF   A    HUNDRED 

FULL  PAGE  PHOTO 

AND   HALF-TONE 

ENGRAVINGS. 


Published  by 

J.  L.  NICHOLS  &  COMPANY 

Manufacturing  Publishers  of  High  Grade  Subscription  Books 

NAPERVILLE.  ILL.  MEMPHIS.  TENN. 

Agents  Wanted 


Copyright,  1896-98-99,  1900-01-03-04-05-1907, 
BY  DODD,  MEAD  &  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1897-98-99, 1900-01-02-03-04-03, 
BY  THE  CURTIS  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

Copyright,  1895-96-97-98,  1901-02-03-04-03, 
BY  THE  CENTURY  COMPANY 


Contents 


INTRODUCTION  TO  "  LYRICS  OF  A  LOWLY  LIFE  " 

By  William  Dean  Howells 

FOREWORD     ....... 

PART  I 
THE  LIFE  OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 

PART  II 
THE  POEMS  OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


'3 
'9 

25 

137 


ABSENCE 198 

Accountability 138 

Advice 319 

After  a  Visit 162 

After  Many  Days 333 

After  the  Quarrel 161 

After  While 167 

Alexander  Crummell — Dead     .    .    .  216 

Alice 161 

Anchored 321 

Angelina 235 

Ante-Bellum  Sermon,  An 144 

Appreciation 314 

At  Candle-Lightin'  Time 235 

At  Cheshire  Cheese 227 

At  Loafing-Holt 329 

At  Night 320 

At  Sunset  Time 328 

At  the  Tavern      301 

Awakening,  The 320 

BACK-LOG  SONG,  A 237 

Ballad 174 

Ballade 282 

Banjo  Song,  A 148 

Barrier,  The 205 

Behind  the  Arras 199 

Bein'  Back  Home 326 

Beyond  the  Years 162 


Black  Samson  of  Brandywine   .    .    .  286 

Blue 322 

Bohemian,  The 197 

Boogah  Man,  The 268 

Booker  T.  Washington 287 

Border  Ballad,  A 166 

Boy's  Summer  Song,  A 303 

Breaking  the  Charm 241 

Bridal  Measure,  A 203 

By  Rugged  Ways 291 

By  the  Stream 166 

CABIN  TALE,  A 243 

Change,  The 325 

Change  Has  Come,  The 174 

Changing  Time 184 

Chase,  The 325 

Choice,  A 227 

Chrismus  is  A-Comin' 218 

Christmas 335 

Christmas  Folksong,  A 304 

Christmas  in  the  Heart 208 

Chrismus  on  the  Plantation  ....  231 

Circumstances  Alter  Cases     ....  327 

Colored  Band,  The 262 

Colored  Soldiers,  The 168 

Columbian  Ode 165 

Communion 213 

Comparison 174 


CONTENTS 


Compensation 321 

Confessional 222 

Confidence,  A 185 

Conquerors,  The     ....:...  216 

Conscience  and  Remorse 157 

Coquette  Conquered,  A  . 175 

Corn  Song,  A 183 

Corn-Stalk  Fiddle,  The 145 

Crisis,  The 215 

Critters'  Dance,  De 267 

Curiosity 311 

Curtain 162 

DANCE,  THE 255 

Dat  Ol'  Mare  o'  Mine 273 

Dawn 177 

Day 3»5 

Deacon  Jones'  Grievance 160 

Dead 185 

Death 301 

Death  of  the  First  Born 32* 

Death  Song,  A 218 

Debt,  The 290 

Delinquent,  The 177 

Dely 240 

Deserted  Plantation,  The  .....  180 

Despair 327 

Differences 275 

Dilettante,  The ;  A  Modern  Type     .  166 

Dinah  Kneading  Dough 274 

Diplomacy 308 

Dirge 178 

Dirge  for  a  Soldier 280 

Disappointed 175 

Discovered 174 

Discovery,  The 319 

Distinction 217 

Disturber,  The 228 

Douglass 287 

Dove,  The 252 

Dreamer,  The 205 

Dreamin'  Town 322 

Dreams 205 

Dreams 252 

Dream  Song  I 208 

Dream  Song  II 208 

Drizzle 266 

Drowsy  Day,  A 177 

EASY-COIN'  FELLER,  AN 166 

Encouraged      307 

Encouragement 268 


End  of  the  Chapter,  The 206 

Ere  Sleep  Comes  Down  to  Soothe  the 

Weary  Eyes 137 

Expectation 229 

FAITH 312 

Farewell  to  Arcady 226 

Farm  Child's  Lullaby,  The   .    .   .    .  313 

Fisher  Child's  Lullaby,  The  .    .    .    .  312 

Fishing 259 

Florida  Night,  A 275 

Foolin'  wid  de  Seasons 232 

Fount  of  Tears,  The 300 

Forest  Greeting,  The 304 

Forever 335 

For  the  Man  Who  Fails 223 

Frederick  Douglass 139 

Frolic,  A 280 


GARRET,  THE 200 

Golden  Day,  A 316 

Good-Night 175 

Gourd,  The 214 

Grievance,  A 273 

Growin*  Gray 189 


HAUNTED  OAK,  THE 297 

He  Had  His  Dream 175 

Her  Thought  and  His 198 

Harriet  Beecher  Stowe 223 

Hope 314 

"  Howdy,  Honey,  Howdy !  "    ...  277 

How  Lucy  Backslid •  245 

Hunting  Song 242 

Hymn,  A 204 

Hymn  .    .    .    .' 178 

Hymn 230 


IF 186 

In  an  English  Garden 215 

In  August 228 

In  May 248 

lone 157 

Inspiration 265 

In  Summer 197 

In  the  Morning 274 

In  the  Tents  of  Akbar 299 

Invitation  to  Love 175 

Itching  Heels 297 


CONTENTS 


JEALOUS 238 

llted 231 

oggin*  Erlong 251 

bhnny  Speaks 303 

ust  Whistle  a  Bit 204 

KEEP  A-PLUGGIN'  AWAY 164 

Keep  a  Song  up  on  de  Way  ....  254 

Kidnaped 321 

King  is  Dead,  The 209 

Knight,  The     ..........  210 

LAPSE,  THE 225 

Lawyers'  Ways,  The 147 

Lazy  Day,  A 315 

Lesson,  The 140 

Letter,  A 242 

Life 140 

Life's  Tragedy 300 

LiT  Gal 285 

Lily  of  the  Valley,  The      .....  307 

Limitations 315 

Lincoln 268 

Little  Brown  Baby 200 

Little  Christmas  Basket,  A    ....  260 

Little  Lucy  Land  man 209 

Liza  May 333 

Lonesome 188 

Long  Ago 276 

Longing 148 

'Long  To'ds  Night 270 

Looking-Glass,  The 287 

Lost  Dream,  A 336 

Love 207 

Love  and  Grief 207 

Love  Despoiled 225 

Love  Letter,  A 330 

Lover  and  the  Moon,  The     ....  156 

Lover's  Lane 229 

Love's  Apotheosis 195 

Love's  Castle 281 

Love's  Draft 320 

Love's  Humility 209 

Love's  Phases 222 

Love  Song,  A 299 

Love-Song 288 

Love's  Seasons 291 

Lullaby 210 

Lyrics  of  Love  and  Sorrow   ....  302 

MARE  RUBRUM       214 

Master-Player,  The 146 


Masters,  The 334 

Meadow  Lark,  The \    \  184 

Melancholia 172 

Memory  of  Martha,  The 277 

Merry  Autumn 173 

Misapprehension 222 

Misty  Day,  A      .  287 

Monk's  Walk,  The 288 

Morning 319 

Morning  Song  of  Love 281 

Mortality      207 

Murdered  Lover,  The 289 

Musical,  A 320 

My  Corn-Cob  Pipe      228 

My  Little  March  Girl     ......  224 

My  Sort  o*  Man 236 

Mystery,  The 146 

Mystic  Sea,  The 197 

My  Sweet  Brown  Gal 261 

My  Lady  of  Castle  Grand      ....  266 

NATURE  AND  ART 167 

Negro  Love  Song,  A 168 

News,  The 231 

Night 329 

Night,  Dim  Night 302 

Night  of  Love 165 

Noddin*  by  de  Fire 282 

Noon 301 

Nora:  A  Serenade 176 

Not  They  Who  Soar 151 

OCTOBER 176 

Ode  for  Memorial  Day 151 

Ode  to  Ethiopia 145 

Old  Apple-Tree,  The 141 

Old  Cabin,  The 333 

Old  Front  Gate,  The 279 

Ol'  Tunes,  The .  171 

On  a  Clean  Book 281 

One  Life 184 

On  the  Dedication  of  Dorothy  Hall  ,  291 

On  the  Road 237 

On  the  Sea  Wall 221 

Opportunity 311 

Over  the  Hills 196 

PARADOX,  THE 196 

Parted 238 

Parted 335 

Party,  The 193 

Passion  and  Love 142 


8 


CONTENTS 


Path,  The 

Phantom  Kiss,  The 

Philosophy 

Photograph,  The 

Phyllis 

Place  Where  the  Rainbow  Ends,  The, 
Plantation  Child's  Lullaby,  The    .    . 

Plantation  Melody,  A 

Plantation  Portrait,  A 

Plea,  A 

Poet,  The 

Poet  and  His  Song,  The 

Poet  and  the  Baby,  The 

Pool,  The 

Possession 

Possum 

Possum  Trot 

Prayer,  A 

Precedent     

Preference,  A 

Premonition 

Preparation 

Prometheus      

Promise  and  Fulfilment 

Protest 

Puttin'  the  Baby  Away 


'47 
213 
290 


276 
256 
252 
275 
'3» 
217 
279 
279 
237 
239 
142 
209 
290 

'52 

179 

222 

H3 
230 
3l6 


QUILTING,  THE 335 

RAIN-SONGS 336 

Real  Question,  The 230 

Religion 160 

Reluctance 285 

Remembered ....  224 

Resignation 209 

Response 260 

Retort .'  138 

Retrospection 152 

Riding  to  Town 183 

Right's  Security 186 

Right  to  Die,  The !98 

Rising  of  the  Storm,  The 141 

Rivals,  The 155 

River  of  Ruin,  The 330 

Roadway,  A 291 

Robert  Gould  Shaw .294 


Roses 


294 


Roses  and  Pearls     . 336 

SAILOR'S  SONG,  A 197 

Sand-Man,  The 303 

Scamp  . 307 


Secret,  The 179 

Seedling,  The 143 

She  Gave  Me  a  Rose 208 

She  Told  Her  Beads 209 

Ships  That  Pass  in  the  Night    .    .    .  177 

Signs  of  the  Times 187 

Silence 269 

Slow  Through  the  Dark     ...        .  289 

Snowin' 253 

Soliloquy  of  a  Turkey 255 

Song 144 

Song 266 

Song,  A 337 

Song,  A 337 

Song,  The 186 

Song  of  Summer 153 

Sonnet 218 

Sparrow,  The 188 

Speakin*  at  de  Cou't-House   ....  286 

Speakin'  o'  Christmas 188 

Spellin'-Bee,  The 162 

Spiritual,  A 276 

Spring  Fever 261 

Spring  Song 153 

Spring  Wooing,  A 25 1 

Stirrup  Cup,  The 227 

Sum,  The 217 

Summer  Night,  A 328 

Summer's  Night,  A     ". 177 

Sunset 141 

Suppose 325 

Sympathy 207 

TEMPTATION 239 

Then  and  Now 227 

Theology      209 

Thou  Art  My  Lute 213 

Till  the  Wind  Gets  Right 328 

Time  to  Tinker  'Roun' ! 203 

To  a  Captious  Critic 270 

To  a  Dead  Friend 292 

To  a  Lady  Playing  the  Harp    .    .    .  221 

To  an  Ing-rate 299 

To  a  Violet  Found  on  All  Saints'  Day,  262 

To  Dan         315 

To  E.  H.  K 204 

To  Her     ....                       .    .    .  330 

ToJ.Q 308 

To  Louise 154 

To  the  Eastern  Shore 281 

To  the  Memory  of  Mary  Young  189 

To  the  Road 247 


CONTENTS 


9 


To  the  South 292 

Trouble  in  de  Kitchen 335 

Tryst,  The 252 

Turning  of  the  Babies  in  the  Bed,  The,  254 

Twell  de  Night  is  Pas' 320 

Twilight 312 

Two  Little  Boots 248 

Two  Songs 147 

UNEXPRESSED 153 

Unlucky  Apple,  The 316 

Unsung  Heroes,  The 278 

VAGRANTS 224 

Valse,  The 256 

Vengeance  is  Sweet    .    .    .    .    .    .    .  204 

Veteran,  The   .    . 322 

Visitor,  The 259 

Voice  of  the  Banjo,  The 226 

WADIN'  IN  DE  CREEK 308 

Waiting 205 

"Warm  Day  in  Winter,  A 253 

Warrior's  Prayer,  The 225 

Way  T'ings  Come,  De 301 


Weltschmertz 

W'en  I  Gits  Home 

We  Wear  the  Mask 

What's  the  Use 

When     a    Feller's    Itching    to    be 

Spanked    

When  All  is  Done 

When  de  Co'n  Pone's  Hot     .... 
When  Dey  'Listed  Colored  Soldiers  . 

When  Malindy  Sings 

When  Sam'l  Sings 

When  the  Old  Man  Smokes  .... 
Whip-Poor- Will  and  Katy-Did  .    .    . 

Whistling  Sam 

Whittier 

Why  Fades  a  Dream  ? 

Wind  and  the  Sea,  The 

Winter's  Approach 

Winter's  Day,  A      

Winter  Song 

With  the  Lark 

Wooing,  The 

Wraith,  The 

YESTERDAY  AND  TOMORROW  . 


277 
184 
315 

329 
216 

T 
265 

190 
294 
i99 
270 
244 
151 
187 
179 
321 
224 

303 
196 

173 
269 

325 


PART  III 

THE  BEST  STORIES  OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 
A  Family  Feud    .... 
Jimsella        .         .          .  . 

The  Walls  of  Jericho    . 
How  Brother  Parker  Fell  From  Grace 
Jim's  Probation     .... 
A  Supper  by  Proxy 
The  Faith  Cure  Man     . 
The  Wisdom  of  Silence 
The  Scapegoat     . 


339 
339 
355 
361 

373 
381 

39i 

400 
406 
414 


Illustrations 

Paul  Laurence  Dunbar Frontispiece 

President  Theodore  Roosevelt  .......  Page     21 

Hon.  John  Hay      ....... .."22 

Mrs.  Matilda  Dunbar      ........"        27 

President  William  McKinley    .         .         .         .         .         .  «        28 

Dr.  Henry  A.  Tobey      . "45 

William  Dean  Howells    .          .         .                   .         .         .         .  "        46 

Dr.  William  Burns           .         .          .         .         .         .         .         .  "        71 

Colonel  Robert  G.  Ingersoll     .         .         .         .         .         .         .  "        72 

Hon.  Frederick  Douglass          ......."        99 

Master  Harry  Barton  Bogg,  Jr.          .         .         .         .         .         .  "      100 

The  Dunbar  House         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .  "      119 

Mr.  Dunbar's  Desk "120 

Hon.  Brand  Whitlock      .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .  "      129 

Mr.  Dunbar's  Library     .          .         .         .         .         .         .         .  "      130 

Oh,  dere  's  lots  o'  keer  an*  trouble    .          .         .         .         .         .  "      149 

Male  an'  female,  small  an'  big, —      .          .         .         .         .         .  "      1 50 

Seen  my  lady  home  las'  night  .          .          .         .         .         .         .  "      169 

When  de  co'n  pone's  hot          .          .          .         .         .         .         .  "      170 

De  plow's  a-tumblin' down  in  de  fiel' "      181 

O'er  the  fields  with  heavy  tread         .          .         .         .         .         .  "      182 

Put  dat  music  book  away           .         .         .         .         .         .         .  "      191 

While  Malindy  sings        .         .         .         .         .         .         .  tf      192 

Who's  pappy 's  darlin'      .          .          .          .          .  "  .          .  "      201 

Den  you  men's  de  mule's  ol*  ha'ness           ...                   .  "      202 

Po' little  lamb "      211 

Dat's  my  gal           .         .         .         ...          ,         .         .  **      212 

Beneaf  de  willers    .          .         .          .          .         .         .         .         .  '*      219 

Chris'mus  is  a-comin*      ........'*      220 

II 


12  ILLUSTRATIONS 

I  lays  sorrer  on  de  she'f I    .      .         .     Page   233 

Mek  de  shadders  on  de  wall     .         .         .         .         .         .         ."234 

Dese  little  boots "      249 

Come  on  walkin'  wid  me,  Lucy        .         .         .         .         .  "      250 

My  Mandy  Lou "      257 

Bring  dat  basket  nighah „  "      258 

The  colored  band "263 

My  'Lias  went  to  wah     ........"      264 

He  toss  his  piccaninny     .         .         .         .         .         .         .  "      271 

She  de  only  hoss  fu'  me  .         .         .         .         .         .         .  "      272 

By  a  good  ol'  hick'ry  fiah         .         .       '  .         .         .         .  "      283 

LiT  Gal  .         . "284 

Sam'l  took  a  trip  a-Sad'day "295 

Don'  fiddle  dat  chune  no  mo*  ......."      296 

It's  goin'  to  be  a  green  Christmas      ......"      305 

Wen  you  says  yo'  "  Now  I  lay  me "         .         .         .         .         .        "      306 

Dah  de  watah's  gu'glin' "      309 

Whut  is  mammy  cookin'  .         .         .         .,  .  "      310 

Dese  eyes  o'  mine  is  wringin'  wet     .         .         .         .         .  "      317 

Des  don'  pet  yo'  worries  .         .         .         .         .         »         ."318 

Chile,  I's  sholy  blue        .         .         .         .         .         .         .  "      323 

In  dat  dreamland  of  delight       ....         .         .         ."324 

A  letter  f 'om  de  sweetes'  little  gal     .         .         .         .         .  "      331 

I     .     .     .     git  to  t'inkin'  of  de  pas' "      332 

Old  Aunt  Doshy "      353 

Mandy  Mason        .         .         .          .         .         .         .         .  "      354 

." '  Stan'  still,  stan'  still,  I  say,  an'  see  de  salvation  '"  .         .       "371 

His  eyes  were  bright,  and  he  was  breathing  quickly     .         .         .        "372 

Dat  Jim "      389 

"  You  old  scoundrel,"  said  a  well  known  voice  "      390 


Introduction 

I  THINK  I  should  scarcely  trouble  the  reader  with  a 
special  appeal  in  behalf  of  this  book,  if  it  had  not 
specially  appealed  to  me  for  reasons  apart  from  the 
author's  race,  origin,  and  condition.  The  world  is  too 
old  now,  and  I  find  myself  too  much  of  its  mood,  to  care 
for  the  work  of  a  poet  because  he  is  black,  because  his 
father  and  mother  were  slaves,  because  he  was,  before 
and  after  he  began  to  write  poems,  an  elevator-boy. 
These  facts  would  certainly  attract  me  to  him  as  a  man, 
if  I  knew  him  to  have  a  literary  ambition,  but  when  it 
came  to  his  literary  art,  I  must  judge  it  irrespective  of 
these  facts,  and  enjoy  or  endure  it  for  what  it  was  in 
itself. 

It  seems  to  me  that  this  was  my  experience  with  the 
poetry  of  Paul  Laurence  Dunbar  when  I  found  it  in 
another  form,  and  in  justice  to  him  I  cannot  wish  that  it 
should  be  otherwise  with  his  readers  here.  Still,  it  will 
legitimately  interest  those  who  like  to  know  the  causes, 
or,  if  these  may  not  be  known,  the  sources,  of  things,  to 
learn  that  the  father  and  mother  of  the  first  poet  of  his 
race  in  our  language  were  negroes  without  admixture  of 
white  blood.  The  father  escaped  from  slavery  in  Ken- 
tucky to  freedom  in  Canada,  while  there  was  still  no  hope 
of  freedom  otherwise  ;  but  the  mother  was  freed  by  the 
events  of  the  civil  war,  and  came  North  to  Ohio,  where 
their  son  was  born  at  Dayton,  and  grew  up  with  such 
chances  and  mischances  for  mental  training  as  every- 

'3 


I4  INTRODUCTION 

where  befall  the  children  of  the  poor.  He  has  told  me 
that  his  father  picked  up  the  trade  of  a  plasterer,  and 
when  he  had  taught  himself  to  read,  loved  chiefly  to  read 
history.  The  boy's  mother  shared  his  passion  for  litera- 
ture, with  a  special  love  of  poetry,  and  after  the  father 
died  she  struggled  on  in  more  than  the  poverty  she  had 
shared  with  him.  She  could  value  the  faculty  which  her  son 
showed  first  in  prose  sketches  and  attempts  at  fiction,  and 
she  was  proud  of  the  praise  and  kindness  they  won  him 
among  the  people  of  the  town,  where  he  has  never  been 
without  the  warmest  and  kindest  friends. 

In  fact,  from  every  part  of  Ohio  and  from  several  cities 
of  the  adjoining  States,  there  came  letters  in  cordial  ap- 
preciation of  the  critical  recognition  which  it  was  my 
pleasure  no  less  than  my  duty  to  offer  Paul  Dunbar's 
work  in  another  place.  It  seemed  to  me  a  happy  omen 
for  him  that  so  many  people  who  had  known  him,  or 
known  of  him,  were  glad  of  a  stranger's  good  word  ;  and 
it  was  gratifying  to  see  that  at  home  he  was  esteemed  for 
the  things  he  had  done  rather  than  because  as  the  son  of 
negro  slaves  he  had  done  them.  If  a  prophet  is  often 
without  honor  in  his  own  country,  it  surely  is  nothing 
against  him  when  he  has  it.  In  this  case  it  deprived  me 
of  the  glory  of  a  discoverer  ;  but  that  is  sometimes  a  bar- 
ren joy,  and  I  am  always  willing  to  forego  it. 

What  struck  me  in  reading  Mr.  Dunbar's  poetry  was 
what  had  already  struck  his  friends  in  Ohio  and  Indiana, 
in  Kentucky  and  Illinois.  They  had  felt,  as  I  felt,  that 
however  gifted  his  race  had  proven  itself  in  music,  in 
oratory,  in  several  of  the  other  arts,  here  was  the  first  in- 
stance of  an  American  negro  who  had  evinced  innate  dis- 
tinction in  literature.  In  my  criticism  of  his  book  I  had 


INTRODUCTION  15 

alleged  Dumas  in  France,  and  I  had  forgetfully  failed  to 
allege  the  far  greater  Pushkin  in  Russia  ;  but  these  were 
both  mulattoes,  who  might  have  been  supposed  to  derive 
their  qualities  from  white  blood  vastly  more  artistic  than 
ours,  and  who  were  the  creatures  of  an  environment  more 
favorable  to  their  literary  development.  So  far  as  I 
could  remember,  Paul  Dunbar  was  the  only  man  of  pure 
African  blood  and  of  American  civilization  to  feel  the 
negro  life  aesthetically  and  express  it  lyrically.  It  seemed 
to  me  that  this  had  come  to  its  most  modern  conscious- 
ness in  him,  and  that  his  brilliant  and  unique  achievement 
was  to  have  studied  the  American  negro  objectively,  and 
to  have  represented  him  as  he  found  him  to  be,  with 
humor,  with  sympathy,  and  yet  with  what  the  reader 
must  instinctively  feel  to  be  entire  truthfulness.  I  said 
that  a  race  which  had  come  to  this  effect  in  any  member 
of  it,  had  attained  civilization  in  him,  and  I  permitted  my- 
self the  imaginative  prophecy  that  the  hostilities  and  the 
prejudices  which  had  so  long  constrained  his  race  were 
destined  to  vanish  in  the  arts  ;  that  these  were  to  be  the 
final  proof  that  God  had  made  of  one  blood  all  nations 
of  men.  I  thought  his  merits  positive  and  not  compar- 
ative ;  and  I  held  that  if  his  black  poems  had  been  writ- 
ten by  a  white  man,  I  should  not  have  found  them  less 
admirable.  I  accepted  them  as  an  evidence  of  the  essen- 
tial unity  of  the  human  race,  which  does  not  think  or  feel 
black  in  one  and  white  in  another,  but  humanly  in  all. 

Yet  it  appeared  to  me  then,  and  it  appears  to  me  now, 
that  there  is  a  precious  difference  of  temperament  be- 
tween the  races  which  it  would  be  a  great  pity  ever  to 
lose,  and  that  this  is  best  preserved  and  most  charmingly 
suggested  by  Mr.  Dunbar  in  those  pieces  of  his  where  he 


!6  INTRODUCTION 

studies  the  moods  and  traits  of  his  race  in  its  own  accent 
of  our  English.  We  call  such  pieces  dialect  pieces  for 
want  of  some  closer  phrase,  but  they  are  really  not  dia- 
lect so  much  as  delightful  personal  attempts  and  failures 
for  the  written  and  spoken  language.  In  nothing  is  his 
essentially  refined  and  delicate  art  so  well  shown  as  in 
these  pieces,  which,  as  I  ventured  to  say,  describe  the 
range  between  appetite  and  emotion,  with  certain  lifts  far 
beyond  and  above  it,  which  is  the  range  of  the  race.  He 
reveals  in  these  a  finely  ironical  perception  of  the  negro's 
limitations,  with  a  tenderness  for  them  which  I  think  so 
very  rare  as  to  be  almost  quite  new.  I  should  say,  per- 
haps, that  it  was  this  humorous  quality  which  Mr.  Dun- 
bar  had  added  to  our  literature,  and  it  would  be  this 
which  would  most  distinguish  him,  now  and  hereafter. 
It  is  something  that  one  feels  in  nearly  all  the  dialect 
pieces ;  and  I  hope  that  in  the  present  collection  he  has 
kept  all  of  these  in  his  earlier  volume,  and  added  others 
to  them.  But  the  contents  of  this  book  are  wholly  of  his 
own  choosing,  and  I  do  not  know  how  much  or  little  he 
may  have  preferred  the  poems  in  literary  English.  Some 
of  these  I  thought  very  good,  and  even  more  than  very 
good,  but  not  distinctively  his  contribution  to  the  body  of 
American  poetry.  What  I  mean  is  that  several  people 
might  have  written  them ;  but  I  do  not  know  any  one 
else  at  present  who  could  quite  have  written  the  dialect 
pieces.  These  are  divinations  and  reports  of  what  passes 
in  the  hearts  and  minds  of  a  lowly  people  whose  poetry 
had  hitherto  been  inarticulately  expressed  in  music,  but 
now  finds,  for  the  first  time  in  our  tongue,  literary  inter- 
pretation of  a  very  artistic  completeness. 

I  say  the  event  is  interesting,  but  how  important  it 


INTRODUCTION  17 

shall  be  can  be  determined  only  by  Mr.  Dunbar's  future 
performance.  I  cannot  undertake  to  prophesy  concern- 
ing this  ;  but  if  he  should  do  nothing  more  than  he  has 
done,  I  should  feel  that  he  had  made  the  strongest  claim 
for  the  negro  in  English  literature  that  the  negro  has  yet 
made.  He  has  at  least  produced  something  that,  how- 
ever we  may  critically  disagree  about  it,  we  cannot  well 
refuse  to  enjoy ;  in  more  than  one  piece  he  has  produced 
a  work  of  art. 

W.  D.  HOWELLS. 


Foreword 

IN  preparing  this  biography  of  Paul  Laurence  Dunbar 
for  his  publishers,  his  biographer  was  greatly  helped  and 
encouraged  by  many  persons  who  knew  and  loved  him. 
Among  those  to  whom  special  thanks  are  due  are  the  poet's 
mother,  Mrs.  Matilda  Dunbar  of  Dayton,  and  his  friends, 
Dr.  H.  A.  Tobey,  Mr.  Charles  Thatcher,  Mayor  Brand 
Whitlock,  and  Mr.  Charles  Cottrill  of  Toledo. 

Many  letters  of  inquiry  were  written,  and  in  almost 
every  case  prompt  and  helpful  replies  received.  The 
other  facts  given  or  anecdotes  told  were  found  in  letters 
written  in  the  poet's  own  hand  to  intimate  friends. 

It  has  been  the  steadfast  purpose  of  his  biographer  to 
give  to  the  world  only  such  data  as  could  be  -established 
in  fact,  and  if  she  has  failed  in  any  instance  the  error  was 
of  the  head  and  not  the  heart. 

It  would  have  been  a  pleasant  thing  to  have  reproduced 
all  the  appreciative  letters  that  came  in  connection  with 
the  writing  of  this  biography,  but  as  that  would  have  been 
impossible,  it  has  seemed  well  to  quote  from  two  of  the 
many. 

Having  been  told  that  upon  one  occasion,  President 
Roosevelt  had  said,  in  speaking  of  Mr.  Dunbar  : 

"  I  like  that  young  man,  though  I  do  not  agree' with 
his  philosophy,"  a  letter  was  addressed  by  Mr.  Dunbar's 
biographer  to  the  President.  In  response  to  this  inquiry 
Mr.  Roosevelt  wrote  as  follows  : 


20  FOREWORD 

Oyster  Bay,  L.  /.,  August  2, 
MY  DEAR  MRS.  WIGGINS  : 

I  have  your  letter  of  the  2yth.  While  I  only  had 
the  pleasure  of  meeting  Mr.  Dunbar  once  or  twice,  I  was 
a  great  admirer  of  his  poetry  and  his  prose. 

I  do  not  believe  I  ever  spoke  such  a  sentence  as  that 
you  quote  in  reference  to  him.  I  had  been  struck  by  the 
artistic  merit  of  his  work,  and  had  not  thought  of  what 
you  speak  of  as  its  "  philosophy  "  save  in  the  sense  that 
all  really  artistic  work  has  a  philosophy  of  application  to 
the  entire  human  race. 

Sincerely  yours, 

THEODORE  ROOSEVELT. 

Having  observed  by  newspaper  reports  that  Mr.  James 
Lane  Allen  was  a  friend  of  the  black  poet's,  though  a 
man  of  southern  birth,  a  letter  was  sent  him  by  Mr.  Dun- 
bar's  biographer.  His  reply  is  beautifully  characteristic, 
and  the  paragraph  which  he  generously  sends  for  use  in 
the  Life  is  quoted  verbatim  here  — 

"  I  think  that  Paul  Laurence  Dunbar  reached,  in  some 
of  his  poems,  the  highest  level  that  his  race  has  yet  at- 
tained'in  lyric  form,  and  feeling  :  and  if  it  can  be  of  serv- 
ice to  you  to  make  use  of  this  opinion,  it  is  gladly  at  your 
service." — JAMES  LANE  ALLEN. 

By  all  races  and  under  all  skies  the  poems  of  Paul 
Laurence  Dunbar  are  being  read,  and  a  decade  later  the 
world  will  have  learned  to  know,  better  than  it  does  now, 
the  loss  it  sustained  when  the  greatest  poet  of  his  race, 
and  one  of  the  greatest  of  any  race,  passed  into  the 
silence  and  dropped  the  veil. 

To  his  biographer,  who  visited  him  many  times,  during 
the  last  two  years  of  his  life,  the  friendship  of  such  a  man 


Copyright,  1903,  by  C.  M.  Bell  Photo  Co. 

PRESIDENT    THEODORE    ROOSEVELT 

Who  was  a  great  admirer  of  Mr.  Dunbar's  literary  productions, 
and  who  was  a  personal  friend  of  the  poet. 


HON.   JOHN    HAY 

Who  being  the  American  Ambassador  to  England  at  the  time 
of  Mr.  Dunbar's  visit  to  London,  paid  him  marked  attention, 
and  arranged  an  entertainment  at  which  Mr.  Dunbar  recited 
his  poems  before  a  highly  intellectual  and  cultured  audience. 


FOREWORD  23 

meant  more  than  mere  prose  may  tell.  After  a  visit  to 
the  poet,  when  he  was  particularly  cheerful  and  full  of 
hope,  these  lines  "  wrote  themselves  down "  as  a  slight 
appreciation  of  the  privilege  of  calling  on  Paul  Laurence 
Dunbar. 

I  come  from  the  home  of  a  poet, 

Who  wove  me,  with  exquisite  art, 
A  cloak  of  the  threads  of  his  fancy  — 
Rich  'broidered  with  flowers  of  the  heart. 

Oh,  wonderful  cloak  that  he  wove  me, 
"  For,  under  its  magical  spell, 
I  heard  in  the  lilt  of  a  linnet 
An  anthem  of  infinite  swell. 

I  sat  'mid  the  fragrance  of  roses, 

Tho'  never  a  rose  blossomed  there, 
And  perfume  of  jasmine  flowers  mingled 

With  violet  scents  in  the  air. 

Life's  lowly  were  laureled  with  verses, 

And  sceptred  were  honor  and  worth, 
While  cabins  became,  through  the  poet, 

Fair  homes  of  the  lords  of  the  earth. 

The  plane,  where  life's  humble  ones  labor 

In  sorrow  and  sadness  untold, 
Shone  forth  in  my  eyes'  quickened  vision, 

A  field  of  the  fabric  of  gold. 

With  sorrow,  blest  cloak,  I  relinquished 

Thy  influence,  sweet  and  ideal, 
For  a  world  where  the  Real  is  called  "fancy," 

And  fancied  things  only  are  "  real." 

—  Lida  Ktck  Wiggins. 


PART  I 
Life  of  Paul  Laurence  Dunbar 

CHAPTER  I 

BIRTH  AND  PARENTAGE 

AT  Dayton,  Ohio,  in  the  year  1871,  Mrs.  Matilda 
Murphy,  an  ex-slave,  was  married  to  Joshua  Dunbar, 
who,  having  escaped  to  Canada  before  the  war,  had  later 
enlisted  in  the  Fifty-fifth  Massachusetts  Infantry,  and  was, 
at  the  time  of  his  marriage,  an  old  man.  Neither  Joshua 
Dunbar  nor  his  wife  could  read  or  write,  but  both  had  ardent 
ambitions  to  know  more  of  the  world  and  of  the  achieve- 
ments of  their  fellow  men.  Matilda  Dunbar' s  master  was 
a  cultured  gentleman  of  Lexington,  Kentucky,  and  as  a 
little  girl,  she  was  allowed  to  sit  at  his  feet  and  listen  as 
he  read  aloud  to  his  wife  from  the  great  writers.  Espe- 
cially was  she  delighted  when  he  read  poetry — the  music 
of  it,  the  rhythm  and  the  imagery  fired  her  imagination 
and  left  an  unfading  impression  upon  her  mind.  It  was 
always  with  regret  and  sometimes  with  a  hidden  tear  that 
little  Matilda  left  her  seat  on  the  floor  at  her  master's  knee 
and  retired  to  bed.  She  dared  not  express  a  wish  to  re- 
main— she  was  only  a  slave  child  and  was  not  expected 

25 


26  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

to  have  opinions  of  her  own.  During  her  girlhood  and 
even  after  she  went  to  Dayton,  Ohio,  and  married  her 
first  husband,  Mr.  Murphy,  she  still  loved  to  hear  verses 
read  and  was  a  very  capable  judge  of  the  merits  of  a 
metrical  composition.  After  her  marriage  with  Joshua 
Dunbar,  she  learned  from  school-children,  whom  she  coaxed 
into  her  humble  home,  the  coveted  letters  of  the  alpha- 
bet. One  by  one  she  mastered  them,  and  then  began 
spelling  out  words,  and  finally  sentences.  Her  husband, 
although  well  advanced  in  years,  taught  himself  reading, 
and  after  long  hours  spent  at  his  trade,  which  was  that  of 
a  plasterer,  he  read  universal  history  and  biography. 

In  1872  this  pair  became  the  parents  of  a  boy  baby. 
When  the  momentous  question  of  "  naming  the  baby11 
came  to  be  discussed,  Mr.  Dunbar  insisted  that  the  child 
be  called  Paul.  His  young  wife  thought  the  name  too 
"  old-fashioned  "  for  a  baby.  Mr.  Dunbar  had  a  quaint 
and  formal  manner  of  addressing  his  wife,  and  upon  this 
occasion  said  : 

"  Matilda  Madam,  don't  you  know  that  the  Bible  says 
Paul  was  a  great  man  ?  This  child  will  be  great  some 
day  and  do  you  honor." 

Thus  the  question  was  settled,  and  the  child  was  chris- 
tened Paul  Laurence,  the  Laurence  being  in  compliment 
to  a  Dayton  friend.  The  father  of  Paul  Dunbar  proved 
a  prophet.  The  boy  was  a  genius.  At  as  early  an  age 
as  seven  years  he  wrote  his  first  bit  of  verse.  It  was  a 
child's  poem  and  naturally  expressed  childish  sentiment, 
but  even  then  the  flickerings  of  a  great  talent  were  ap- 
parent. There  had  to  be  a  beginning,  and  to  those  who 
view  this  short  life  from  first  to  last  it  would  almost  seem 
that  the  young  poet  knew  his  work  must  be  done  quickly, 


MRS.    MATILDA    DUNBAR 
The  poet's  mother,  who  as  a  child  was  held  in  slavery. 


Copyright,  lyoO,  by  C.  farker 

PRESIDENT    WILLIAM    McKINLEY 

Who  conferred  on  Mr.  Dunbar  the  honor  of  a  commission  to 
act  as  aide  with  rank  of  Colonel  in  his  inaugural  parade. 
Mr.  Dunbar  accepted  the  invitation  and  rode  in  the  procession. 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  29 

as  the  time  was  short.  His  soul  was  old  when  his  body 
came  into  the  world. 

At  school,  'Paul  Dunbar  was  a  diligent  pupil,  his  fa- 
vorite studies  being  spelling,  grammar  and  literature.  It 
is  to  the  everlasting  credit  of  his  teachers  that  they  en- 
couraged him  in  his  writing,  and  praised  the  little  poems 
which  he  carried  to  them  in  a  bashful  way.  Perchance  if 
they  had  been  indifferent  to  these  early  attempts,  the  shrink- 
ing lad  would  never  have  had  courage  to  go  forward. 
Timidity  and  modesty  marked  his  bearing  through  life. 

When  in  high  school  he  edited  The  High  School  Times, 
a  monthly  publication  issued  by  the  pupils  of  the  Steele 
High  School.  This  work  was  done  with  so  much  tact 
and  evinced  such  extraordinary  talent  that  many  an  older 
head  predicted  the  boy's  future  renown. 

In  1891  he  graduated  from  the  high  school  with  hon- 
ors, and  the  class  song  composed  by  him  was  sung  at  the 
commencement  exercises. 

Commencement  meant  to  Paul  Dunbar  the  beginning  of 
his  hard  struggle  for  existence.  His  father  having  died  in 
1884,  it  devolved  upon  the  boy  to  support  his  mother. 
It  is  doubtful  if  in  all  history  a  child  were  ever  more  faith- 
ful and  loyal  to  a  mother  than  this  young  poet.  While 
yet  in  school  he  had  assisted  her  in  her  humble  tasks  as 
a  washerwoman,  and  carried  home  the  clothes  to  her 
patrons.  He  did  odd  jobs  about  hotels  and  other  places, 
and  was  always  willing  and  eager  to  lend  a  helpful  hand. 
His  graduation  over,  Dunbar  sought  regular  work.  Hav- 
ing obtained  an  education,  he  quite  naturally  hoped  for 
better  things  than  mere  menial  employment.  He  was 
destined  to  meet  with  disappointment.  On  every  hand 
his  color  told  against  him,  and  at  last  in  sheer  despair, 


30  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

he  was  compelled  to  accept  a  position  as  elevator  boy  in 
the  Callahan  Building  at  Dayton.  Here  he  earned  four 
dollars  a  week,  upon  which  to  support  his  mother  and 
himself.  Many  a  young  man,  possessing  such  a  sensi- 
tive soul,  would  have  recoiled  from  so  humble  an  occu- 
pation. Not  so  with  this  budding  genius.  With  brave 
heart  he  set  about  his  task,  determined  to  gain  recogni- 
tion later.  There  were  few  flowers  in  his  path  and  many 
cruel  thorns.  He  gathered  the  roses,  inhaled  their  fra- 
grance, and  immortalized  their  beauty  in  verse,  and  the 
thorns  he  bore  bravely  as  a  part  of  human  life.  Thus 
he  learned  early  to  be  a  philosopher,  and  in  consequence 
a  great  poet.  Every  moment  that  could  be  snatched 
from  his  busy  hours  was  utilized  in  improving  his  brilliant 
mind.  His  soul,  attuned  to  the  infinite  music  which  is  ever 
to  be  heard  even  among  most  unfavorable  surroundings, 
detected  a  melody  in  the  grating  of  the  elevator  cables 
and  the  thud  of  the  car  as  it  stopped  for  passengers. 
The  people  he  served  were  of  lively  interest  to  the  lad, 
and  into  very  ordinary  faces  his  artistic  mind  painted  un- 
guessed  nobility  and  beauty.  His  humble  home,  his  dear 
mother  and  his  beloved  black  people  formed  the  all- 
sufficient  inspiration  for  his  earlier  dialect  poems.  Many 
of  these  were  stories  told  by  his  mother,  as  the  family 
sat  before  the  fire  on  winter  nights,  but  he  always  added 
a  touch  of  quaint  philosophy,  or  a  breath  of  pathos, 
which  lifted  them  above  the  level  of  folk-lore  and  gave 
them  a  dignity  and  depth  which  were  all  his  own.  The 
best  things  he  wrote  in  those  early  days  were  the  poems 
which  were  couched  in  classic  English,  and  the  produc- 
tion of  such  verses  proved  far  more  than  his  dialect  the 
remarkable  scope  of  his  mentality. 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  31 

In  1892,  when  the  Western  Association  of  Writers  met 
at  Dayton,  Mrs.  Truesdale,  one  of  Dunbar's  former 
teachers,  brought  about  an  invitation  for  him  to  deliver 
the  address  of  welcome.  The  printed  program  did  not 
contain  the  name  of  the  person  who  was  to  give  the 
address,  but  at  the  appointed  hour,  having  secured  a 
limited  leave  of  absence  from  his  elevator,  young  Dunbar 
went  to  the  hall.  He  entered  as  a  shadow,  walked  grace- 
fully down  the  aisle,  and  mounted  the  rostrum.  He  was 
introduced  to  the  audience  by  Dr.  John  Clark  Ridpath 
and  delivered  the  "  welcome  "  in  metrical  form,  written 
in  the  best  of  English  and  full  of  haunting  melody.  His 
manner  of  reading  was  almost  as  wonderful  as  his  com- 
position, and  the  cultured  audience  was  delighted  and 
amazed.  As  quickly  as  he  came  he  disappeared,  and 
hurried  back  to  his  work.  The  members  of  the  associ- 
ation were  convinced  that  they  had  been  listening  to  a 
genius ;  and  many  inquiries  were  made  concerning  the 
lad.  He  was  later  made  a  member  of  the  Association. 

The  following  day  Dr.  James  Newton  Matthews,  Mr. 
Will  Pfrimmer  and  Dr.  Ridpath  went  to  the  Callahan 
Building  and  sought  him  out.  They  found  him  at  his 
post  of  duty  and  by  his  side  in  the  elevator  were  a  late 
copy  of  the  Century  Magazine,  a  lexicon,  a  scratch  tablet 
and  a  pencil.  Dunbar,  writing  to  a  friend  of  this  meet- 
ing said : 

"  My  embarrassment  was  terrible.  In  the  midst  of  a 
sentence,  perhaps,  a  ring  would  come  from  the  top  of  the 
building  for  the  elevator,  and  I  would  have  to  excuse 
myself  and  run  up  after  passengers." 

Dr.  Matthews  questioned  Dunbar  concerning  his  life, 
and  secured  copies  of  a  number  of  his  poems.  A  few 


32  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

weeks  later  he  wrote  a  press-letter  about  the  young  poet 
and  quoted  these  poems.  This  letter  was  published  in 
many  of  the  leading  newspapers  in  America  and  England. 
A  copy  of  it  fell  into  the  hands  of  James  Whitcomb 
Riley,  who  after  reading  the  verses, wrote  the  young  poet 
a  letter  in  which  he  called  him  "  his  chirping  friend,"  and 
praised  his  work,  particularly  the  one  entitled  "  Drowsy 
Day."  This  letter  was  one  of  Dunbar's  treasures  and 
he  kept  it  all  his  life. 


CHAPTER  II 
"OAK  AND  IVY" 

THE  years  1892  and  1893  were  memorable  in  the  life 
of  Paul  Laurence  Dunbar.  Encouraged  by  a  number  of 
men,  who  promised  to  supply  financial  support,  the 
young  man  began  to  have  ambitions  to  publish  a  book 
of  his  poems.  One  evening,  after  a  hard  day  on  the 
elevator,  he  went  to  his  home,  and  said  to  his  mother : 

"  Ma,  where  are  those  papers  I  asked  you  to  save  for 
me  ?  "  The  "  papers  "  to  which  he  referred  were  man- 
uscript and  newspaper  copies  of  his  poems.  His  mother, 
having  but  little  room  in  their  tiny  home,  utilized  the 
kitchen  for  dining-room  as  well,  and  on  the  table  in  the 
middle  room,  Paul  had  piled  his  papers  during  the  years 
of  high  school.  His  mother  allowed  the  pile  to  grow, 
though  she  did  not  know  that  it  contained  his  manu- 
scripts, and  thought  that  the  papers  to  which  he  referred 
were  his  botany  sheets  and  things  of  that  kind.  Finally, 
being  criticised  by  her  neighbors  for  allowing  such  a 
stack  of  papers  to  lie  on  her  table,  she  gathered  them 
all  together,  and  put  them  in  a  large  box  under  the  old 
fashioned  "  safe,"  in  her  kitchen.  So,  when  her  son  came 
home  that  particular  evening  and  asked  anxiously  for  his 
"  papers,'1  she  said  : 

"  They're  out  there  under  the  safe." 

Dunbar  selected  from  the  pile  a  little  bundle,  which  he 
carried  away  with  him  next  morning,  saying,  "  Ma,  I'm 
going  to  publish  a  book." 

33 


34  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

He  went  to  the  office  of  the  United  Brethren  Publish- 
ing House  and  unfolded  his  plans  to  the  agent  of  that 
institution.  His  "  friends  "  who  had  promised  financial 
backing,  had  laughed  at  him  when  he  asked  them  to 
make  their  word  good,  so  he  had  to  approach  the  pub- 
lisher empty-handed.  Here  again  he  met  with  disap- 
pointment. They  would  not  "  take  the  risk,"  and  unless 
he  could  secure  $125.00  to  pay  for  the  books  they  would 
not  undertake  their  publication.  One  hundred  and 
twenty-five  dollars  1  They  might  as  well  have  asked  for 
a  thousand.  Poor  Dunbar,  unable  to  conceal  his  disap- 
pointment, was  leaving  the  house  with  a  sad  countenance, 
wholly  discouraged.  At  this  juncture,  Mr.  William 
Blacher,  the  business  manager  of  the  concern,  noticing 
his  disheartened  appearance,  called  him  to  his  desk  and 
said : 

"  What's  the  matter,  Paul  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  wanted  to  have  a  volume  of  poems  printed, 
but  the  house  can't  trust  me,  and  I  can  never  get  $125.00 
to  pay  for  it  in  advance." 

Mr.  Blacher's  heart  was  touched.  He  knew  the  boy, 
and  appreciated  him.  He  had  read  his  verses,  and 
knew  that  they  were  "  real  poems,"  truly  inspired.  He 
told  young  Dunbar  that  he  would  stand  between  him  and 
the  house  for  the  amount  required,  and  that  the  book 
would  be  published  for  the  Christmas  holidays. 

The  boy's  bright  face  was  aglow  with  happiness  when 
he  reached  his  mother's  home  that  night,  and  there  were 
tears  of  joy  in  his  eyes  when  he  said : 

"Oh,  ma,  they're  going  to  print  my  book." 

Several  weeks  later,  one  snowy  morning,  there  came 
a  rap  at  the  door  of  the  Dunbar  home.  Mrs.  Dunbar, 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  35 

wiping  her  hands  free  of  suds  on  her  apron,  opened  the 
door.  A  man  stood  outside  with  a  large  package  of 
books  for  "  Mr.  Paul  Dunbar." 

"  These  are  a  few  of  Mr.  Dunbar's  books/1  he  said. 
"  And,  by  the  way,  what  is  this  Dunbar  ?  Is  he  a  doctor, 
a  lawyer,  a  preacher,  or  what  ?  " 

His  mother  modestly  replied — "Who?  Paul?  Why 
Paul  is  just  an  elevator  boy,  and  a — poet." 

In  less  than  two  weeks  after  the  appearance  of  the 
little  volume  which  was  entitled  "  Oak  and  Ivy  Poems," 
Paul  Dunbar  again  approached  the  desk  of  Mr.  Blacher. 
This  time  he  walked  with  a  confident  tread,  and  reaching 
into  his  pocket,  produced  the  exact  amount  of  his  indebt- 
edness, one  hundred  and  twenty-five  dollars  1  The  boy 
had  sold  enough  books  while  going  up  and  down  in  his 
elevator  to  pay  for  the  whole  edition  ! 

Soon  after  this  Judge  Dustin,  of  the  Common  Pleas 
Court,  became  interested  in  the  lad,  and  gave  him  a  po- 
sition as  page  at  the  Dayton  Court  House.  He  also 
gave  Dunbar  a  chance  to  read  law. 

About  this  time,  a  review  of  his  book,  "  Oak  and  Ivy," 
appeared  in  the  Toledo  Blade,  and  several  of  his  poems 
were  reproduced.  Among  these  was  his  "  Drowsy  Day." 
This  article  and  the  poems  attracted  the  attention  of  Mr. 
Charles  Thatcher,  a  rising  attorney  of  Toledo,  who 
wrote  to  Dunbar,  asking  him  to  send  a  copy  of  "  Oak 
and  Ivy,"  and  to  tell  him  something  of  his  life.  Mr. 
Dunbar  answered  this  letter  from  Richmond,  Indiana, 
where  he  had  been  invited  by  one  of  the  most  prominent 
ladies  of  that  city,  to  come  and  read  a  poem  at  a  church 
social.  He  said  that  there  was  very  little  to  tell  of  his 
early  life,  as  it  had  been  uneventful,  and  that  he  had  been 


36  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

running  an  elevator  in  Dayton  at  $4.00  per  week,  and 
out  of  his  earnings  attempting  to  support  himself  and 
his  widowed  mother,  and  to  pay  for  the  little  home  which 
he  had  bought  through  the  building  and  loan  association, 
but  that  the  bulk  of  his  payments  went  for  interest.  He 
also  said  that  he  expected  to  go  to  Detroit  in  the  near 
future,  as  a  friend  was  trying  to  arrange  a  reading  for 
him  there.  Mr.  Thatcher  answered  the  letter  immedi- 
ately, and  asked  him  to  stop  off  at  Toledo  on  his  way  to 
Detroit,  as  he  wished  to  meet  him  personally. 

April  15,  1893,  Dunbar  went  to  Toledo,  on  his  way 
to  Detroit,  and  called  at  the  office  of  the  attorney,  who 
was  immediately  impressed  with  his  gentlemanly  bearing 
and  with  his  desire  to  secure  an  education. 

Mr.  Thatcher  was  impressed  by  the  earnest  expression 
of  the  young  man's  face,  and  with  his  evident  honesty  of 
purpose.  After  considerable  conversation,  he  suggested 
to  Dunbar  that  he  might  secure  several  gentlemen  to  join 
him  and  arrange  to  loan  him  an  amount  each  year, 
necessary  to  meet  his  expenses  while  in  college:  and 
that  if  this  were  done,  he  could  give  his  note  to  each  per- 
son who  advanced  money,  with  a  view  to  paying  the 
sum  when  he  was  able.  He  placed  the  matter  be- 
fore Dunbar  as  a  business  proposition,  and  not  in  the 
light  of  charity.  The  poet  did  not  hesitate  a  moment. 
He  promptly  declined  the  offer,  saying  with  admirable 
pride,  although  with  due  appreciation  of  his  friend's 
kindness : 

"I  feel  that  I  can  accomplish  it  alone,  and  very  much 
prefer  to  do  so,  if  I  am  able." 

He  went  to  Detroit,  and  gave  readings,  which  added 
to  his  reputation  as  a  reader  and  a  poet.  While  there  he 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  37 

received  a  telegram  from  Mr.  Thatcher  to  come  back  by 
way  of  Toledo,  and  to  be  prepared  to  recite  for  the  West 
End  Club  the  following  Wednesday  evening.  Dunbar 
wrote  his  new  patron,  thanking  him,  and  saying :  "I 
am  studying  hard  for  Wednesday  night,  and  hope  I  shall 
please  the  members  of  the  West  End  Club."  This  club 
had  been  recently  organized  and  once  a  week  some  per- 
son delivered  a  lecture  or  a  paper.  That  night  it  so  hap- 
pened that  Dr.  W.  C.  Chapman,  of  Toledo,  who  had 
lately  returned  from  a  trip  South,  was  on  the  program 
for  a  paper.  Its  title  was  "The  Negro  in  the  South." 
The  doctor  did  not  know  that  Dunbar  was  to  appear 
later,  nor  did  he  know  that  he  was  in  the  audience.  He 
indulged  in  severe  criticisms  of  the  negro,  accusing  him 
of  laziness,  but  added  that  there  were  noted  exceptions  to 
the  rule,  and  referred  to  Paul  Laurence  Dunbar.  When, 
a  little  later,  it  was  announced  that  "  Paul  Laurence  Dun- 
bar  "  would  "  favor  the  club  with  several  original  selec- 
tions," the  doctor  was  covered  with  embarrassment.  The 
young  black  man  rose  with  dignity  and  said : 

"  I  will  give  you  one  number  which  I  had  not  intended 
reciting  when  I  came :  it  is  entitled,  *  An  Ode  to  Ethi- 
opia/ " 

One  would  have  thought  that  he  was  a  lawyer  de- 
fending a  man  for  his  life.  He  seemed  to  feel  that  an  at- 
tack had  been  made  upon  his  race  and  that  he  was  its 
sole  defender.  The  zeal  and  ardor  with  which  he  recited 
showed  that  his  soul  was  in  the  theme.  His  eyes 
flashed,  his  white  teeth  gleamed,  and  his  whole  person 
was  a-tremble  with  emotion.  After  the  recital  he  said  to 
Mr.  Thatcher : 

"  I  do  not  know  but  that  I  showed  too  much  spirit  in 


38  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

rendering    *  An    Ode    to    Ethiopia/    but    I    could    not 
help  it." 

All  who  heard  him  that  night  were  impressed  with  his 
genius,  and  touched  by  the  fact  that  a  boy  of  twenty  had 
taken  up  the  fight  to  defend  a  race  numbering  more  than 
six  millions.  Of  himself  he  might  well  have  been  speak- 
ing when,  in  the  last  stanza  of  the  Ode,  he  cried  : 

"  Go  on  and  up  !     Our  souls  and  eyes 
Shall  follow  thy  continuous  rise : 
Our  ears  shall  list  thy  story 
From  bards  who  from  thy  root  shall  spring 
And  proudly  tune  their  lyres  to  sing 
Of  Ethiopia's  glory." 


CHAPTER  III 

THE    WORLD'S     FAIR— "A     'SPECIAL     PROVIDENCE1" 

AT  the  opening  of  the  World's  Columbian  Exposition 
an  opportunity  came  for  young  D unbar  to  go  to  Chicago. 
At  first  he  hesitated,  not  wishing  to  leave  his  mother 
alone.  Mrs.  Dunbar,  feeling  that  the  fair  would  be  an 
education  in  itself  for  her  boy,  insisted  upon  his  going. 
When  all  was  in  readiness,  and  the  hour  had  come  to  say 
good-bye,  he  leaned  on  the  mantelpiece  and  sobbed  like 
a  child,  saying : 

"Oh,  ma,  I  don't  want  to  go — it  is  such  a  wicked  city  : 
I  know  I  shall  learn  a  great  deal  but  I'm  afraid  to  ven- 
ture. I  don't  want  to  go." 

His  mother,  choking  down  her  own  tears,  talked  to  her 
son,  and  finally  overcame  his  mood.  He  went  to  Chi- 
cago, and  after  several  unsuccessful  attempts  to  obtain 
suitable  employment,  he  was  given  a  position  by  Hon. 
Fred  Douglass,  then  in  charge  of  the  exhibit  from 
Hayti.  For  this  work  Mr.  Douglass  paid  Paul  Dunbar 
$5.00  a  week,  out  of  his  own  pocket.  After  a  while  Dun- 
bar  sent  for  his  mother,  who,  always  willing  to  follow  her 
son,  went  to  him.  She  was  not  too  proud  to  work,  and 
so  did  light  housekeeping  for  a  family  there,  thus  making 
a  bit  of  a  home  for  her  beloved  child. 

On  "  Colored  Folks'  Day  "  at  the  fair,  Paul  Laurence 
Dunbar  was  called  upon  to  render  several  "  selections," 
before  thousands  of  his  own  people.  The  verses  were 
greatly  appreciated,  but  when  it  was  announced,  by  an 

39 


40  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

Episcopal  clergyman  from  Washington,  D.  C,  that  the 
compositions  were  original,  the  applause  was  deafening. 
Fred  Douglass,  in  speaking  to  an  acquaintance  about 
the  young  poet,  during  the  time  he  was  employed  at  the 
Haytian  building,  said  : 

"  I  regard  Paul  Dunbar  as  the  most  promising  young 
colored  man  in  America." 

How  much  the  young  poet  appreciated  the  friendship 
of  the  elder  man  may  be  learned  by  his  beautiful  tribute 
to  him  at  the  time  of  his  death.  The  last  stanza,  which 
reads  as  follows,  is  characteristic : 

"  Oh,  Douglass,  thou  hast  passed  beyond  the  shore, 

But  still  thy  voice  is  ringing  o'er  the  gale  ! 
Thou'st  taught  thy  race  how  high  her  hopes  may  soar, 

And  bade  her  seek  the  heights,  nor  fail. 
She  will  not  fail,  she  heeds  thy  stirring  cry, 
She  knows  thy  guardian  spirit  will  be  nigh, 
And,  rising  from  beneath  the  chast'ning  rod, 
She  stretches  out  her  bleeding  hands  to  God  !  " 

After  the  fair,  Mr.  Dunbar  and  his  mother  returned  to 
Dayton.  Finding  that  it  would  be  impossible  to  earn 
sufficient  funds  for  a  college  course,  the  young  man  re- 
luctantly wrote  his  Toledo  friend,  Mr.  Thatcher,  saying 
that  he  would  reconsider  his  original  decision,  and  accept 
the  loan  which  had  been  offered  him.  The  young  at- 
torney was  quite  willing  to  fulfil  his  part  of  the  promise, 
but  the  other  men,  who  had  given  their  word,  now  had 
excuses  to  offer,  and  the  project  failed  to  materialize. 
This  was  a  heart-breaking  blow  to  poor  Paul  Dunbar, 
but  he  bore  it  bravely  with  indomitable  will  and  more 
than  human  courage. 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  41 

Very  soon  after  this,  he  was  approached  by  a  man  who 
claimed  to  be  organizing  a  "  Black  Jenny  Lind  Concert 
Company,"  and  who  made  the  poet  an  offer  to  go  with 
him  as  his  reader.  Heart  and  soul  the  young  man  went 
to  work,  writing  new  poems,  committing  others  to  mem- 
ory, and  preparing  himself  thoroughly  in  every  way. 
But,  just  ten  days  before  he  was  to  have  started  on  the 
road,  he  received  word  that  the  "  company  "  had  dis- 
banded, and  that  his  services  would  not  be  needed. 
Poor  Dunbar  was  almost  frantic :  winter  was  approach- 
ing :  he  had  no  funds  with  which  to  buy  food  and  fuel : 
his  clothing  and  that  of  his  mother  was  insufficient,  and 
he  had  given  up  everything  in  the  way  of  work  to  go 
with  the  "  Jenny  Lind  "  organization.  A  call  came  to  go 
to  Detroit  to  give  a  reading,  and  this  he  did,  but  the 
affair  proved  to  be  one  given  for  "charity,"  and  Dunbar, 
poorer  than  any  for  whom  the  recital  was  given,  was 
expected  to  give  his  services  gratis.  Thus  impoverished 
he  was  compelled  to  write  again  to  Toledo.  This  time, 
doubtless  with  a  breaking  heart,  he  wrote  to  Mr.  Thatcher  : 
"  Could  some  of  the  money  which  was  offered  for  my 
college  course  be  sent  me  to  relieve  present  embarrass- 
ments ?  I  have  no  funds  and  no  work,  and  a  foreclosure 
is  threatened  on  the  little  home  I  have  been  paying  for 
through  the  Building  &  Loan  Association." 

The  appeal  was  not  in  vain  :  the  money  was  sent,  and 
the  home  saved.  The  relief,  however,  being  only  tem- 
porary, the  boy  poet  soon  grew  desperate  and  wrote  to  a 
friend  under  date  of  November  yth,  1894  : 

"  There  is  only  one  thing  left  to  be  done,  and  I  am  too 
big  a  coward  to  do  that."  Small  wonder  that  thoughts 
of  suicide  should  come  to  this  sensitive  soul  when  every 


42  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

avenue    of    honest    pursuit    was    closed    against    him. 
Truly  — 

"  Every  door  is  barred  with  gold, 
And  opens  but  to  golden  keys," 

and  poor  Paul  Dunbar  didn't  have  the  keys — and  in  ad 
dition  to  that  he  was  a  negro  !     Twice  burdened  indeed 
is  he  who  carries  upon  his  shoulders  the  load  of  poverty 
and  the  stigma  of  race  prejudice. 


In  the  fall  or  winter  of  1893,  Miss  Mary  Reeve  of 
Dayton, — a  woman  of  rare  intellectuality,  who  reviewed 
books  for  magazines,  went  to  Toledo  to  be  the  guest  of 
Dr.  and  Mrs.  H.  A.  Tobey  at  the  Toledo  State  Hospital. 
Dr.  Tobey  was  at  that  time  superintendent  of  the  insti- 
tution, and  is  one  of  America's  greatest  experts  on 
insanity.  He  is  a  man  of  broad  mind,  universal  sympa- 
thies and  decidedly  democratic  ideals.  Miss  Reeve  and 
he  discussed  many  of  the  vital  problems  of  the  day,  and 
upon  one  occasion  the  doctor  said  that  the  only  question 
he  ever  asked  about  any  person  was :  "  What  is  there 
in  the  individual,  regardless  of  creed,  nationality  or  race." 
His  companion  replied  : 

"I  suspect  then  that  you  would  be  interested  in  a 
negro  boy  we  have  down  in  Dayton.  I  don't  know 
much  of  him  myself,  but  my  sister,  Mrs.  Conover  (this 
is  the  Mrs.  Frank  Conover  to  whom  Mr.  Dunbar  after- 
wards dedicated  his  collection  of  poems  entitled  "  Lyrics 
of  Sunshine  and  Shadow "  )  says  he  has  written  some 
very  wonderful  things." 

"  I  would  not  be  interested  in  him,"  replied  the  doctor, 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  43 

"  because  he  is  a  negro  :  I  would  only  be  interested  in 
him  for  what  he  is." 

A  little  later  Miss  Reeve  sent  the  doctor  a  copy  of 
Dunbar's  first  book,  "  Oak  and  Ivy."  He  read  the  little 
poems  casually,  not  giving  them  much  thought,  and  was 
not  especially  impressed.  He  went  to  Dayton  a  few 
months  later,  however,  and  while  there  inquired  about 
Paul  Laurence  Dunbar.  He  heard  of  his  obscure  origin, 
his  hardships  and  his  hopeless  condition.  He  also 
learned  that  the  boy  had  been  faithfully  helping  his 
mother  in  her  humble  tasks  as  a  laundress  :  that  he  had 
graduated  from  high  school :  had  held  a  position  as  ele- 
vator boy,  and  that  he  had  ambitions  to  study  law.  All 
this  appealed  to  Dr.  Tobey.  His  sympathies  were  en- 
listed for  the  boy  because  he  was  making  such  a  noble 
struggle.  When  he  returned  home  he  sought  again  the 
little  volume,  "  Oak  and  Ivy,"  and  this  time,  being  in 
closer  touch  with  its  author,  he  saw  new  beauty  in  the 
lines.  Several  of  the  poems  he  read  over  and  over,  each 
time  finding  greater  depths  and  truths  almost  sublime. 
Finally,  one  Sunday  evening,  after  going  over  the  book 
once  more,  he  wrote  a  letter  to  the  author,  enclosing  a 
sum  of  money,  and  asking  that  the  number  of  books  for 
which  the  amount  would  pay  be  sent  him,  as  he  wished 
to  distribute  them  among  his  friends.  He  also  spoke 
many  encouraging  words  to  the  young  poet,  and  ex- 
pressed a  desire  to  be  of  service  to  him  if  that  were 
possible.  He  did  not  receive  a  reply  from  Mr.  Dunbar 
for  three  or  four  days,  and  then  came  the  answer.  This 
letter  is  so  remarkable  in  many  ways,  and  is  such  a  rev- 
elation of  the  character  of  the  young  man  at  that  time, 
that  it  is  given  verbatim  below  : 


44  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

Dayton,  Ohio,  July  ijth,  1895. 

MY  DEAR  DR.  TOBEY:— 

If  it  is  a  rule  that  tardiness  in  the  acknowledgment 
of  favors  argues  lack  of  appreciation  of  them,  you  may 
set  it  down  that  the  rule  has  gone  wrong  in  this  case. 
Your  letter  and  its  enclosure  was  a  sunburst  out  of  a 
very  dark  and  unpromising  cloud.  Let  me  tell  you  the 
circumstances  and  see  if  you  do  not  think  that  you  came 
to  me  somewhat  in  the  r61e  of  a  "  special  providence." 

The  time  for  the  meeting  of  the  Western  Association 
of  Writers  was  at  hand.  I  am  a  member  and  thought 
that  certain  advantages  might  come  to  me  by  attending. 
All  day  Saturday  and  all  day  Sunday  I  tried  every  means 
to  secure  funds  to  go.  I  tried  every  known  place,  and  at 
last  gave  up  and  went  to  bed  Sunday  night  in  despair. 
But  strangely  I  could  not  sleep,  so  about  half-past  eleven 
I  arose  and  between  then  and  2  A.  M.,  wrote  the  paper 
which  I  was  booked  to  read  at  the  Association.  Then, 
still  with  no  suggestion  of  any  possibility  of  attending 
the  meeting,  I  returned  to  bed  and  went  to  sleep  about 
four  o'clock.  Three  hours  later  came  your  letter  with  the 
check  that  took  me  to  the  desired  place.  I  do  not  think 
that  I  spent  the  money  unwisely,  for  besides  the  pleasure 
of  intercourse  with  kindred  spirits  which  should  have 
been  sufficient  motive,  I  believe  that  there  were  several 
practical  advantages  which  I  derived  from  the  trip, 
whence  I  have  just  returned. 

I  wish  I  could  thank  you  for  the  kindness  that  prompted 
your  action ;  I  care  not  in  whose  name  it  was  done, 
whether  in  Christ's,  Mahomet's  or  Buddha's.  The  thing 
that  concerned  me,  the  fact  that  made  the  act  a  good  and 
noble  one  was  that  it  was  done. 

Yes,  I  am  tied  down  and  have  been  by  menial  labor, 
and  any  escape  from  it  so  far  has  only  been  a  brief  respite 
that  made  a  return  to  the  drudgery  doubly  hard.  But  I 
am  glad  to  say  that  for  the  past  two  or  three  years  I 
have  been  able  to  keep  my  mother  from  the  hard  toil  by 


DR.   HENRY   A.   TOBEY 

To  whom  Mr.  Dunbar  dedicated  his  "Folks  from  Dixie,"  and 

who  had  possibly    the   greatest   influence    of   any 

person  upon  the  poet's  life  and  work. 


WILLIAM    DEAN    HOWELLS 

Whose  article  in  Harper's    Weekly  gave  Mr.  Dunbar  his  first 
introduction  into  the  great  world  of  letters. 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  47 

which  she  raised  and  educated  me.     But  it  has  been  and 
is  a  struggle. 

Your  informant  was  mistaken  as  to  my  aspirations.  I 
did  once  want  to  be  a  lawyer,  but  that  ambition  has  long 
since  died  out  before  the  all-absorbing  desire  to  be  a 
worthy  singer  of  the  songs  of  God  and  nature.  To  be 
able  to  interpret  my  own  people  through  song  and  story, 
and  to  prove  to  the  many  that  after  all  we  are  more 
human  than  African.  And  to  this  end  I  have  hoped  year 
after  year  to  be  able  to  go  to  Washington,  New  York, 
Boston  and  Philadelphia  where  I  might  see  our  northern 
negro  at  his  best,  before  seeing  his  brother  in  the  South  : 
but  it  has  been  denied  me. 

I  hope,  if  possible,  to  spend  the  coming  year  in  college, 
chiefly  to  learn  how  and  what  to  study  in  order  to  culti- 
vate my  vein.  But  I  have  my  home  responsibilities  and 
unless  I  am  able  to  make  sufficient  to  meet  them  I  shall 
be  unable  to  accomplish  my  purpose.  To  do  this  I  have 
for  some  time  been  giving  readings  from  my  verses  to 
audiences  mostly  of  my  own  people.  But  as  my  work 
has  been  confined  to  the  smaller  towns  generally  the  re- 
sult has  not  been  satisfactory. 

Perhaps  I  have  laid  my  case  too  plainly  and  openly  be- 
fore you,  but  you  seem  to  display  a  disposition  to  aid  me, 
and  I  am  so  grateful  that  I  cannot  but  be  confidential. 
Then  beside,  a  physician  does  not  want  to  take  a  case 
when  there  is  reticence  in  regard  to  the  real  phases  of  it. 
And  so  I  have  been  plain.  Sincerely, 

PAUL  L.  DUNBAR. 

140  Ziegler  Street, 

Daytony  Ohio. 


CHAPTER  IV 
MAJORS  AND  MINORS 

IN  August,  1895,  Dr.  Tobey  wrote  the  young  poet,  in- 
viting him  to  come  to  the  Institution  at  Toledo  and  read 
for  the  patients.  Having,  in  the  meantime,  learned  that 
Mr.  Charles  Cottrill,  a  brilliant  young  colored  man  of 
Toledo,  was  a  family  friend  of  the  Dunbars,  Dr.  Tobey 
insisted  on  having  him  at  the  hospital  to  formally  intro- 
duce the  poet.  A  carriage  was  sent  to  meet  Mr.  Dun- 
bar  at  the  railway  station,  and  Dr.  Tobey  and  Mr.  Cot- 
trill  stood  at  a  window,  awaiting  its  return.  When  it 
came  back  and  young  Dunbar  alighted,  the  doctor  ex- 
claimed : 

"  Thank  God,  he's  black ! " 

His  companion,  being  of  a  much  lighter  color  than 
Dunbar,  was  momentarily  offended,  but  the  doctor  re- 
deemed himself  by  adding :  ! 

"  Whatever  genius  he  may  have  cannot  be  attributed  to 
the  white  blood  he  may  have  in  him." 

In  the  autumn  of  the  same  year,  Dr.  Tobey  sent  a 
second  invitation  to  Paul  Dunbar  to  come  to  Toledo  and 
give  a  reading  at  the  Asylum.  The  doctor  having 
learned  of  Mr.  Charles  Thatcher's  great  interest  in  and 
friendship  for  the  Dayton  boy,  asked  the  attorney  to  be 
his  guest  at  this  recital.  Thus  Dunbar' s  two  great  friends 
joined  hands  for  his  future  welfare. 

48 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  49 

At  this  second  recital  Mr.  Dunbar  read  poems  which 
were  new  to  his  Toledo  friends,  and  which  had  not  been 
published  in  "  Oak  and  Ivy." 

They  talked  with  him  at  the  close  of  the  program,  and 
found  that  he  cherished  hopes  of  getting  a  second  book 
published  at  Dayton  on  the  same  terms  as  the  first. 
Under  his  arrangement  with  the  Dayton  house  he  did 
not  own  the  plates  of  his  book,  but  when  he  secured 
orders  for  a  number  of  volumes,  the  firm  would  bind  them 
for  him,  from  the  loose  sheets  kept  on  hand. 

His  two  friends  told  him  that  they  would  assume  the  finan- 
cial part  of  the  new  publication,  and  that  when  the  books 
were  printed  they  would  belong  to  the  author.  Dunbar 
was  very  happy  over  this  arrangement  and  set  about  im- 
mediately to  find  a  Toledo  publisher.  He  finally  arranged 
in  a  very  businesslike  way,  with  the  Hadley  &  Hadley 
Printing  Company  to  publish  an  edition  of  1,000  copies 
of  a  second  book.  This  little  volume  was  called  "  Majors 
and  Minors,"  and  contains  many  of  the  finest  things 
he  ever  wrote.  His  mind  was  not  mature,  then,  as  it 
was  in  later  efforts,  but  his  thoughts  were  honest,  pure 
and  fearless,  and  there  was  not  the  slightest  trace  of 
over-polish  or  artificiality.  Mr.  Dunbar  was  so  con- 
scientious that  very  few  of  the  poems  which  had  ap- 
peared in  his  first  book,  were  reprinted.  He  said,  con- 
cerning the  matter : 

"  Some  poets  get  out  '  new '  books  that  are  largely 
composed  of  poems  that  have  been  published  before.  I 
do  not  believe  that  such  a  practice  is  right." 

The  poet  hoped  to  have  this  book  ready  for  the  Christ- 
mas holidays  of  1895,  but  to  his  great  disappointment, 
it  did  not  appear  until  early  the  following  year. 


50  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

During  the  days  which  preceded  the  publication  of 
"  Majors  and  Minors/'  and  before  the  binders  began  work, 
Dr.  Tobey  was  so  anxious  to  possess  the  poems  in  printed 
form  that  he  went  to  the  office  of  Hadley  &  Hadley,  se- 
cured an  unbound  volume,  and  eagerly  cut  the  leaves 
with  his  pocket  knife. 

So  many  of  the  vital  questions  of  Paul  Laurence  Dun- 
bar's  life  were  settled  seemingly  by  mere  accident,  or  at 
least  remarkably  strange  coincidences!  The  very  day 
that  Dr.  Tobey  came  into  possession  of  this  first  copy  of 
"Majors  and  Minors,"  he  was  called  into  professional  con- 
sultation in  the  city,  which  made  it  necessary  for  him  to  re- 
main at  a  hotel  over  night.  At  this  hotel  he  met  a  friend 
who  was  fond  of  poetry,  and  with  him  Dr.  Tobey  sat  in 
the  office  reading  Dunbar's  verses  until  almost  midnight. 
As  they  stepped  to  the  desk  to  get  their  keys,  the  actor, 
James  O'Neal  and  his  wife  and  Mr.  Nixon,  who  was 
O'Neal's  leading  man  in  "  Monte  Christo,"  then  being 
played  in  Toledo,  came  in.  Dr.  Tobey's  friend  intro- 
duced the  actors  to  him.  Mr.  O'Neal  being  very  weary, 
excused  himself,  and  retired.  Mr.  Nixon  lingered. 

"  I  know,"  said  Dr.  Tobey,  "  that  you  actor  folks  are 
always  being  bored  by  people  wanting  you  to  read  and 
give  opinions  of  poems,  but  I  have  something  here  that  I 
wish  you  would  read,  if  you  will." 

Mr.  Nixon  politely  took  the  crude  little  copy  of  "  Majors 
and  Minors,"  and  began  reading — "  When  Sleep  Comes 
Down  to  Soothe  the  Weary  Eyes."  At  first  he  read  the 
poem  quietly,  leaning  over  the  counter.  Then  he  read  it 
aloud — then  he  gave  it  a  dramatic  rendition,  his  face 
showing  his  delight  and  surprise  at  the  beauty  and  depth 
of  the  lines.  He  read  other  poems,  and  until  three 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  51 

o'clock  the  following  morning,  remained  on  -his  feet,  por- 
ing over  the  poems  of  a  poor  and  almost  unknown  negro 
boy.  He  then  said  : 

"  Dr.  Tobey,  I  thank  you  for  giving  me  this  oppor- 
tunity :  in  my  opinion  no  poet  has  written  such  verses 
since  Poe." 

"  Majors  and  Minors  "  was  soon  published,  and  Dunbar 
went  to  Toledo  to  try  to  sell  his  books.  Naturally 
shrinking  and  unnaturally  timid,  he  met  with  poor  suc- 
cess. To  the  great,  unfeeling,  uncaring  public  he  was 
simply  a  shabby  negro  "  book  agent "  for  whom  they  had 
no  time  nor  interest.  His  friends  sent  him  to  their 
friends,  but  almost  always  he  met  with  discouragement. 
The  average  person  thought :  "  What  do  I  want  with  a 
'  nigger's '  book  ?  " 

He  said  when  speaking  of  the  book-agent  experiences 
to  his  friends :  "  As  a  rule,  if  I  can  get  through  the 
front  office,  and  meet  the  men  to  whom  you  send  me, 
they  are  courteous  and  kind." 

With  a  soul  as  sensitive  as  a  delicate  flower  the  young 
bard  was  ill-fitted  for  so  hard  a  r61e  as  that  of  a  book- 
agent.  It  seemed  that  fate  chose  for  this  black  singer 
the  hardest  lot  she  could  devise.  He  had  borne  burdens 
all  his  life,  but  this  was  too  heavy  for  him,  and  one  night, 
after  an  unusually  discouraging  day,  poor  Dunbar  went 
to  see  his  friend,  Dr.  Tobey. 

"  Well,  my  boy,  how  goes  the  battle  ?  " 

"  Oh,  doctor,"  replied  Dunbar,  with  unbidden  tears 
streaming  down  his  cheeks,  "  I  never  can  offer  to  sell  an- 
other book  to  any  man." 

"  Paul,  why  don't  you  make  up  a  speech  ?  " 

"Oh,"   he  replied,  "I  have  tried  to  do  that,  but  my 


52  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

tongue  cleaves  to  the  roof  of  my  mouth,  and  I  cannot 
say  a  word." 

The  doctor,  though  full  of  sympathy,  replied : 
"  You're  no  good  book  agent.  I  was  down  town  to- 
day for  a  few  hours  and  I  sold  three  of  your  books  to  as 
many  of  the  most  prominent  men  of  Toledo  on  condi- 
tion that  you  deliver  them  in  person  and  make  the  ac- 
quaintance of  each  of  the  purchasers." 

That  same  evening  D unbar,  in  his  childlike  way  said, 
as  though  confessing  a  misdemeanor  to  a  parent : 

"  I  ought  not  to  have  done  it,  I  suppose,  but  I  spent 
fifty  cents  to  see  *  Shore  Acres '  last  night."  That  sum 
took  him  to  the  upper  gallery  in  a  back  row  of  seats.  "  I 
saw  it  once  before,  and  I  could  not  resist  the  temptation. 
It  is  a  poem  from  beginning  to  end.  Have  you  seen  it, 
doctor?" 

"  No,  but  my  wife  and  I  are  going  to-morrow 
night." 

Dunbar  answered  :  "  Don't  fail." 
The  doctor,  as  though  suddenly  inspired,,  said : 
"  Paul,  I'm  glad  you  spoke  of  that  play.  From  what 
I  have  heard  of  the  author,  Mr.  Herne,  I  believe  he  would 
be  interested  in  what  you  have  done  and  are  doing.  I 
want  you  to  take  one  of  your  books  with  your  compli- 
ments, down  to  the  Boody  House,  and  leave  it  with  the 
night  clerk  for  Mr.  Herne."  The  clerk,  a  Mr.  Childs, 
had  learned  of  Dunbar  through  Mr.  Nixon's  readings 
upon  the  night  previously  described  in  these  pages. 
When  this  matter  had  been  agreed  upon  between  Mr. 
Dunbar  and  the  doctor,  the  latter  left  him  for  a  few  mo- 
ments and  went  down  to  the  public  office  of  the  Institu- 
tion. A  representative  of  one  of  the  greater  New  York 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  53 

dailies  was  at  the  time  a  guest  of  Dr.  Tobey  and  his 
family.  Addressing  him,  Dr.  Tobey  said  : 

"  Mr.  T ,  with  your  permission,  I'm  going  to  bring 

down  here  and  introduce  to  you  the  most  wonderful  man 
you  ever  met."  „  - 

The  newspaper  man  looked  somewhat  incredulous,  but 
knowing  Dr.  Tobey 's  word  could  be  relied  upon,  replied 
that  he  should  be  delighted  to  meet  the  wonderful  indi- 
vidual to  whom  he  referred. 

His  host  then  went  in  search  of  Paul  Dunbar,  and  not 
telling  him  what  he  had  said  to  the  New  York  man, 
brought  him  in  and  introduced  them.  If  the  scribe  had 
been  incredulous  before  he  was  even  more  so  now  when 
he  saw  a  slender,  bashful  and  shabbily  dressed  negro 
walk  in  with  Dr.  Tobey.  Introductions  over,  Dr.  Tobey 
said : 

"Paul,  I  have  been  telling  this  gentleman  something 
about  you  and  I  want  you  to  recite  for  us  a  few  of  your 
poems." 

Dunbar  rose  and  in  rising  seemed  to  shake  off  the  self- 
consciousness  and  restraint  that  had  been  upon  him.  His 
face  grew  radiant  with  the  beautiful  thoughts  to  which  he 
gave  utterance,  and  he  read  a  number  of  his  very  finest 
verses  with  inimitable  skill. 

When  he  had  finished,  the  New  York  man  compli- 
mented him,  and  thanked  him  profusely  for  the  enter- 
tainment he  had  afforded.  Then  as  soon  as  he  could,  he 
called  Dr.  Tobey  aside  and  said : 

"  Dr.  Tobey,  you  have  introduced  me  to  the  most  won- 
derful man  I  ever  met.  His  poems  are  sublime  and  his 
interpretation  faultless.  I  can  never  thank  you  enough 
for  having  given  me  a  chance  to  meet  him/' 


54  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

The  next  evening,  in  obedience  to  Dr.  Tobey's  request, 
Mr.  Dunbar  carried  his  little  book  to  the  hotel,  and  hav- 
ing inscribed  it  to  Mr.  Herne,  would  have  left  it  there. 
It  so  chanced,  however,  that  Mr.  Herne  had  sought  an- 
other hotel,  where  he  could  have  greater  quiet,  and  the 
Boody  House  clerk  suggested  to  Dunbar  that  he  take  the 
book  and  give  it  to  Mr.  Herne,  personally.  This  Dunbar 
said  he  would  do,  and  the  next  morning  went  to  Mr. 
Herne's  hotel.  In  describing  this  incident  in  later  years, 
Mr.  Dunbar  said  : 

"  I  approached  the  hotel  with  fear  and  trembling  and 
must  confess  that  I  was  greatly  relieved  to  find  that  Mr. 
Herne  was  out." 

He  took  the  book  back  to  the  clerk  at  the  Boody 
House,  who  kindly  volunteered  to  see  that  it  reached  Mr. 
Herne.  This  he  did,  taking  it  himself  to  the  clerk  of  the 
other  hotel,  and  leaving  it  for  the  actor. 

That  was  on  Friday,  and  the  following  Sunday  after- 
noon the  poet  went  out  to  the  hospital,  all  aglow  with  joy 
over  a  letter  which  he  had  received  from  Mr.  Herne.  It 
read  as  follows : 


Detroit,  Mich. 
MY  DEAR  MR.  DUNBAR  : 

While  at  Toledo,  a  copy  of  your  poems  was  left 
at  my  hotel  by  a  Mr.  Childs.  I  tried  very  hard  to  find 
Mr.  Childs  to  learn  more  of  you.  Your  poems  are  won- 
derful. I  shall  acquaint  William  Dean  Howells  and  other 
literary  people  with  them.  They  are  new  to  me  and  they 
may  be  to  them. 

I  send  you  by  this  same  mail  some  things  done  by  my 
daughter,  Julia  A.  Herne.     She  is  at  school  in   Boston. 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  55 

Her  scribblings  may  interest  you.     I  would  like  your 
opinion.     .     .     . 

A  am  an  actor  and  a  dramatist.  My  latest  work — 
"  Shore  Acres  "  you  may  have  heard  of.  If  it  comes  your 
way,  I  want  you  to  see  it,  whether  I  am  with  it  or  not. 
How  I  wish  I  knew  you  personally  1  I  wish  you  all  the 
good  fortune  that  you  can  wish  for  yourself. 
Yours  very  truly, 

JAMES  A.  HERNE. 

Later  in  that  same  good  year  of  1896  Paul  Dunbar 
met  a  friend  who  was  destined  to  be  one  of  the  stars  of 
hope  in  his  literary  sky.  Dr.  Tobey,  ever  alert  to  the  in- 
terests of  his  young  friend,  wrote  to  Colonel  Robert  G. 
Ingersoll — in  New  York,  and  sent  him  a  copy  of  "  Majors 
and  Minors,"  saying : 

"  I  know  you  are  too  busy  a  man  to  read  all  the  poems 
in  this  book,  so  I  take  the  liberty  of  marking  a  number 
which  I  consider  the  stronger  ones.  I  do  not  profess  to 
be  literary,  but  think  I  probably  have  ordinary  human 
feeling  and  common  sense,  and  I  would  like  you  to  read 
over  the  poems  I  have  marked,  and  which  I  think  un- 
usual. If  after  reading  them  you  feel  the  same  way,  it 
would  be  a  great  consolation  to  Mr.  Dunbar  in  his  pov- 
erty and  obscurity  if  you  would '  write  a  letter  of  com- 
mendation." 

Ten  days  later  the  doctor  received  the  following  reply : 


MY  DEAR  DR.  TOBEY: 


No.  220  Madison  Avenue, 

April,  1896,  New  York  City. 


At  last  I  got  the  time  to  read  the  poems  of  Dun- 
bar.     Some  of  them  are  really  wonderful — full  of  poetry 


56  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

and  philosophy.  I  am  astonished  at  their  depth  and 
subtlety.  Dunbar  is  a  thinker.  "The  Mystery1'  is  a 
poem  worthy  of  the  greatest.  It  is  absolutely  true,  and 
proves  that  its  author  is  a  profound  and  thoughtful  maa 
So  the  "  Dirge  "  is  very  tender,  dainty,  intense  and  beau- 
tiful. "  Ere  Sleep  Comes  Down  to  Soothe  the  Weary 
Eyes  "  is  a  wonderful  poem  :  the  fifth  verse  is  perfect.  So 
"He  Had  His  Dream  "  is  very  fine  and  many  others. 

I  have  only  time  to  say  that  Dunbar  is  a  genius.  Now, 
I  ask  what  can  be  done  for  him  ?  I  would  like  to  help. 

Thanking  you  for  the  book,  I  remain 
Yours  always, 

R.   G.   INGERSOLL. 

When  one  considers  the  youthfulness  of  the  heart  and 
hand  that  penned  the  poems  to  which  Mr.  Ingersoll  re- 
ferred, one  is  filled  with  wonder  and  amaze.  It  will  not 
be  out  of  place  to  quote  here  that  "  perfect "  fifth  verse 
of  "When  Sleep  Comes  Down  to  Soothe  the  Weary 
Eyes."  It  is  as  profound  as  "  Thanatopsis "  and  as 
musical  as  "  Hiawatha  "  or  any  of  the  "  standard  "  poems 
of  the  world : 

"  Ere  sleep  comes  down  to  soothe  the  weary  eyes 

How  questioneth  the  soul  that  other  soul, — 
The  inner  sense  that  neither  cheats  nor  lies, 

But  self  exposes  unto  self,  a  scroll 
Full  writ  with  all  life's  acts,  unwise  or  wise, 

In  characters  indelible  and  known  : 
So  trembling  with  the  shock  of  sad  surprise 

The  soul  doth  view  its  awful  self  alone, 
Ere  sleep  comes  down  to  soothe  the  weary  eyes." 


CHAPTER  V 

A  REMARKABLE  BIRTHDAY  PRESENT 

TRUE  to  his  promise,  Mr.  Herne  sent  a  copy  of  "  Majors 
and  Minors  "  to  William  Dean  Ho  wells,  who  was  soon  im- 
pressed (to  quote  part  of  a  recent  letter  to  the  author  of 
this  biography)  "  by  the  little  countrified  volume,  which 
inwardly  was  full  of  °a  new  world." 

Modesty  is  a  hall  mark  of  genius.  Dunbar  had  it  in  a 
superlative  degree,  and  that  Mr.  Howells  possesses  the 
same  beautiful  trait  is  evident  when  one  reads  the  next 
sentence  of  the  letter  written  his  biographer  under  date 
of  June  i,  1906  : 

"  I  want  to  say  that  many  western  friends  fully  felt  the 
quality  of  Dunbar' s  work  before  I  had  the  good  luck  of 
drawing  notice  to  it  in  a  prominent  place,  and  so  far  as 
any  credit  is  concerned,  it  is  they  who  deserve  it." 

The  "  prominent  place "  to  which  Mr.  Howells  refers 
was  Harpers  Weekly.  In  the  same  issue  which  gave  an 
account  of  William  McKinley's  first  nomination  at 
Minneapolis,  which  issue  had  an  enormous  circulation, 
appeared  a  full-page  review  of  Paul  Laurence  Dunbar's 
little  book — "  Majors  and  Minors,"  and  an  unprecedented 
appreciation  of  the  young  man's  work  by  Mr.  Howells. 
He  could  not  have  found  a  more  opportune  time  for  in- 
troducing the  young  poet  to  the  reading  world.  No 
longer  could  the  sweet  singer  of  Ethiopia  be  spoken  of  as 
obscure  or  unknown.  Like  the  sun  which  suddenly  slips 

57 


58  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

from  behind  a  sombre  cloud  and  floods  the  world  with 
glory,  so  the  name  of  Paul  Laurence  Dunbar,  swept  into 
sight  and  passed  majestically  before  the  reviewing  stand 
of  the  entire  reading  world.  He  literally  retired  one 
night  unknown,  and  woke  at  the  dawn  of  his  twenty- 
fourth  birthday  to  find  himself  a  famous  man.  Advert- 
ently or  inadvertently  Mr.  Howells  had  chosen  June  27, 
1896,  for  the  appearance  of  his  article,  thus  presenting  the 
young  man  with  the  most  magnificent  birthday  present 
he  could  ever  hope  to'  receive. 

Having  concluded  his  critique  of  "  Majors  and  Minors," 
Mr.  Howells  remembering  that  the  boy  was  possibly  in 
need  of  something  more  substantial  than  appreciative 
phrases,  dear  as  they  would  be,  added : 

"  I  am  sorry  that  I  cannot  give  the  publisher,  as  well  as 
the  author  of  this  significant  little  book ;  but  I  may  say 
that  it  is  printed  by  Hadley  &  Hadley  of  Toledo,  Ohio." 

Immediately  letters  began  pouring  into  the  office  of  the 
printers,  many  were  addressed  to  Dunbar,  asking  for  his 
photograph  and  every  imaginable  kind  of  query.  Others 
ordered  the  book.  Among  the  orders  was  one  from  the 
American  Consul  at  Athens,  Greece.  In  fact  demands 
came  from  all  parts  of  the  world. 

When  Mr.  Dunbar,  having  been  told,  by  a  friend,  of 
the  Harpers  article,  bought  a  copy  at  a  Dayton  news- 
stand he  was  almost  overwhelmed  with  emotion,  and,  as 
he  described  it :  "  Didn't  know  whether  to  laugh  or  cry, 
but  guessed  he  did  a  little  of  each." 

Mr.  James  Lane  Allen  became  interested  in  Paul  Dun- 
bar  and  his  poems  about  this  time,  and  called  the  atten- 
tion'of  several  New  York  magazine  editors  and  reviewers 
to  the  verses  of  the  negro  bard.  These  men  gave  the 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  59 

young  poet  flattering  notices  and  helped  to  make  perma- 
nent his  new-made  fame. 

He  and  his  mother  had  occasion  to  be  absent  from 
home  for  a  few  days  about  this  time,  and  while  they  were 
away  the  postman  slipped  the  mail  through  the  slats  of  a 
front  window  shutter.  When  Mrs.  Dunbar  attempted  to 
open  this  shutter,  two  hundred  letters  snowed  down  upon 
the  floor.  Many  of  these  contained  money  for  copies  of 
"  Majors  and  Minors."  All  exhibited  a  complimentary 
interest  in  the  youthful  poet  and  his  wonderful  verses. 

On  the  following  Fourth  of  July,  Dr.  Tobey,  real- 
izing that  to  insane  persons,  holidays  are  the  most  un- 
happy occasions  of  all,  arranged,  as  was  his  custom,  to 
hold  an  elaborate  celebration. 

He  invited  Paul  Laurence  Dunbar  and  his  mother  to 
come  to  Toledo,  as  he  wished  him  to  give  a  number  of 
readings.  Unknown  to  the  poet,  he  also  invited  fifty  of 
sixty  prominent  persons  from  Toledo  and  elsewhere. 
Among  these  guests  was  the  late  Governor  Foster.  When 
Mr.  Dunbar  and  his  mother  arrived  at  the  Institution 
the)'-  were  given  an  affectionate  greeting  by  Dr.  Tobey 
and  his  family,  and  then  the  doctor  told  them  of  the  dis- 
tinguished guests  who  had  already  arrived  and  were 
awaiting  them. 

"  It  has  all  come  at  once,  Paul.  Mr.  Howells  has  made 
you  famous,"  said  the  doctor,  with  an  arm  about  the 
younger  man's  shoulders.  "  They  all  want  to  meet  you 
now.  Those  who  '  made  fun '  of  you  because  of  your 
color  and  your  poverty  are  now  eager  to  clasp  your  hand  : 
those  who  were  indifferent  are  now  enthusiastic.  This  is 
going  to  be  the  testing  day  of  your  life.  I  hope  you  will 


60  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

bear  good  fortune  and  popularity  as  well  and  as  bravely 
as  you  have  met  your  disappointments  and  your  humili- 
ations. If  so,  that  will  indeed  be  a  proof  of  greatness." 

It  was  with  much  difficulty  that  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Tobey 
were  able  to  prevail  upon  Mrs.  Dunbar  to  go  down  to  the 
recital.  She  could  not  understand  why  people  wanted  to 
meet  her  !  So  little  do  many  of  the  meek  souls  who  are 
really  worth  while,  realize  their  importance  in  the  world. 
It  is  a  question  whether  Dunbar  would  ever  have  been  a 
poet,  had  it  not  been  for  his  mother's  passion  for  poetry, 
and  the  prenatal  influence  of  this  love  upon  her  child. 
Many  times  she  said  to  her  son  : 

"  Oh,  Paul,  if  I  could  have  had  an  education  I  might 
have  written  poetry  too."  And  loyal  Paul  would  reply 
with  love  "jnd  reverence  beaming  from  his  eyes,  "  Well, 
ma,  you  gave  me  the  talent,  and  I  am  writing  the  songs 
for  you."  Some  such  conversation  may  have  been  the 
inspiration  of  his  lovely  poem  "  When  Malindy  Sings  " 
which  he  dedicated  to  her. 

By  many  eloquent  persuasions,  that  memorable  Fourth 
of  July  morning,  Matilda  Dunbar  was  led  to  overcome 
her  timidity  and  go  down  to  the  drawing-room.  Had  she 
cherished  a  remaining  doubt  as  to  her  probable  welcome 
there,  it  was  instantly  set  at  rest.  Every  one  wanted  to 
meet  the  "  little  black  mammy  "  of  the  poet,  and  all  gave 
her  a  hearty  handshake  and  kindly  word,  and  Paul's 
honors  were  divided  that  day  with  his  beloved  mother. 

Dunbar  recited  many  poems  that  morning — among 
them  his  "  Ships  that  Pass  in  the  Night "  and  of  his  ren- 
dition of  that  poem  Governor  Foster  afterwards  re- 
marked : 

"Of  all  things  I  ever  heard,  I  never  listened  to  any- 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  61 

thing  so  impressive  as  his  rendition  of  the  '  Ships  that 
Pass  in  the  Night.'  " 

That  night,  after  the  long,  triumphant  day  was  done, 
the  poet  sitting  alone  with  his  thoughts  and  his  fame, 
poured  out  his  soul  to  God  in  verse.  The  entire  poem  he 
called  "  The  Crisis."  The  last  stanza  shows,  as  in  a  mir- 
ror, the  honest  soul  of  the  young  author — and  his  ardent 
desire  to  be  true  to  his  better  self,  and  thus  a  saviour  to 
his  race  — 


"  Mere  human  strength  may  stand  ill-fortune's  frown, 

So  I  prevailed,  for  human  strength  was  mine  : 
But  from  the  killing  strength  of  great  renown 
Naught  may  protect  me  save  a  strength  divine. 
Help  me,  O  Lord,  in  this  my  trembling  cause, 
I  scorn  men's  curses,  but  I  dread  applause  1  M 


CHAPTER  VI 

DUNBAR'S  «  MANAGER  " 

SOON  after  the  appearance  of  Mr.  Ho  wells*  article  in 
Harper's  Weekly  (June  27,  1896),  Mr.  Dunbar  called  at 
the  office  of  a  friend  in  Toledo,  who  volunteered  to  write 
Mr.  Howells  concerning  a  suitable  manager  for  the  poet- 
reader.  Mr.  Dunbar  accepted  this  offer,  and  a  three  or 
four  page  letter  was  written  Mr.  Howells.  The  novelist 
soon  responded,  giving  the  name  of  a  gentleman  who  he 
thought  would  be  satisfactory  to  Mr.  Dunbar  and  his 
friends.  This  gentleman  also  received  a  note  from  Mr. 
Howells,  and  at  once  began  correspondence  with  the 
Toledo  man  in  regard  to  Dunbar.  He  was  anxious  to 
have  the  poet  come  to  New  York,  and  his  Toledo  friend 
wrote  the  prospective  manager  that  if  he  would  take  care 
of  the  young  man  after  his  arrival  in  New  York,  his  fare 
to  that  city  would  be  forthcoming,  but  that  the  boy  had 
no  money. 

Scarcely  a  year  had  elapsed  since  Dunbar,  obscure  and 
unread,  had  written  his  then  unknown  friend,  Dr.  Tobey, 
that  he  had  "  hoped  year  after  year  to  be  able  to  go  to 
Washington,  New  York,  Boston  and  Philadelphia — but 
that  it  had  been  denied  him."  He  had  now  given  a  suc- 
cessful evening  of  his  readings  at  the  national  capital  and 
was  about  to  start  for  New  York. 

The  prospective  "  manager  "  wrote  that  he  would  pay 
his  board  while  at  the  metropolis,  and  his  Toledo  friend, 

62 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  63 

as  good  as  his  word,  sent  Dunbar  a  generous  check  for 
his  passage  and  suitable  clothing. 

It  seemed  to  the  young  man  that  all  his  good  things 
came  from  Toledo,  and  he  christened  that  city  his 
"  adopted  home."  With  high  hope  he  started  eastward, 
and  in  a  few  days  made  the  acquaintance  of  his  manager. 

Feeling  that  duty,  as  well  as  desire,  demanded  that  he 
call  on  William  Dean  Howells  and  thank  him  for  the 
great  kindness  he  had  done  him,  the  young  poet  went  to 
Far  Rockaway  Beach,  where  the  novelist  was  spending 
the  summer  at  his  cottage. 

With  fluttering  heart,  Paul  Dunbar  approached  the 
door  and  rang  the  bell.  The  maid  who  answered  it,  see- 
ing only  a  very  much  embarrassed  negro  youth,  was  not 
particularly  effusive,  but  left  him  standing  while  she  car- 
ried his  card  to  Mr.  Howells.  One  may  imagine  her 
surprise  when  the  novelist,  hurrying  to  the  door,  caught 
Dunbar's  hand  with  one  of  his,  and  throwing  an  arm 
about  the  young  man's  shoulders  said  : 

"  Come  in  :  come  in  :  I  am  so  happy  to  see  you  and  to 
meet  you  personally." 

Mr.  Dunbar  arrived  at  Far  Rockaway  soon  after 
luncheon,  but  Mr.  Howells  kept  him  for  tea  and  until 
midnight.  Of  that  visit  he  has  written  to  the  author  of 
this  biography  saying  :  "I  am  glad  you  are  writing  his 
life,  and  I  shall  look  for  it  with  true  interest.  Perhaps 
you  may  like  to  set  down  that  Dunbar  came  to  see  me  in 
my  cottage  at  Far  Rockaway,  and  took  tea  with  us  there. 
I  thought  him  one  of  the  most  refined  and  modest  men  I 
had  ever  met,  and  truly  a  gentleman. 
"  Yours  sincerely, 

"  WILLIAM  DEAN  HOWELLS." 


64  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

Mr.  Howells,  being  a  genius  and  consequently  an  artist 
is  "  color-blind  "  so  far  as  intellect  and  good  breeding  are 
concerned,  and  he  could  not  have  shown  a  royal  guest 
more  honor  or  deference  than  he  gave  the  negro  poet. 

When  Dunbar  was  about  to  go,  it  was  remarked  that 
the  night  had  grown  chill.  He  had  no  overcoat,  and  Mr. 
Howells  insisted  upon  putting  his  own  coat  upon  his 
guest.  The  next  morning,  Dunbar  returned  the  coat 
with  a  note  in  which  he  said  :  "  In  wearing  your  coat,  I 
felt  very  much  like  the  long-eared  animal  in  the  fable  of 
the  ass  clad  in  the  lion's  skin." 

Early  in  August,  1896,  while  Mr.  Dunbar  was  still  in 
New  York,  his  friend,  Mr.  Charles  Thatcher,  of  Toledo, 
met  him  in  the  metropolis.  He  also  met  Major  Pond,  who 
was  about  to  become  Mr.  Dunbar' s  manager,  and  asked 
him  what  he  thought  of  the  poet.  The  Major  replied  : 

"  I  had  him  come  over  to  my  house  a  few  evenings 
ago,  and  there  give  a  reading  to  about  thirty  invited 
guests.  The  *  white '  readers  are  not  in  it  with  him  when 
it  comes  to  delighting  an  audience.  I  want  to  make  a 
contract  to  place  him  on  the  road  for  a  period  of  two 
years,  etc." 

Mr.  Thatcher  then  learned  from  Mr.  Dunbar  that 
Major  Pond  had  introduced  him  to  several  New  York 
publishing  houses,  and  that  the  manuscript  for  a  third 
book  of  poems,  which  he  had  entitled  "  Lyrics  of  Lowly 
Life  "  had  been  left  with  Messrs.  Dodd,  Mead  &  Company. 

Mr.  Thatcher  went  to  Narragansett  Pier  in  a  few  days 
after  this,  telling  Mr.  Dunbar  to  be  ready  to  go  there  if  he 
received  word  to  that  effect.  He  carried  with  him  to  the 
pier  a  copy  of  "  Majors  and  Minors."  He  read  a  number  of 
the  verses  to  friends  who  were  spending  the  summer  at 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  65 

the  New  Matthewson  Hotel  there,  and  all  expressed  a  de- 
sire to  meet  the  author,  and  to  hear  him  recite.  There 
were  several  southern  people  among  those  who  made 
this  request.  A  telegram  was  sent  to  Mr.  Dunbar  to 
come  at  once  prepared  to  give  a  recital.  The  proprietor 
of  the  hotel  donated  the  ballroom  and  the  services  of  an 
orchestra  for  the  occasion. 

Dunbar  never  appeared  to  better  advantage  than  upon 
that  particular  evening.  Among  other  things  selected 
for  the  program  was  his  dialect  poem — "  The  Cornstalk 
Fiddle."  The  orchestra  accompanied  him  while  he 
chanted  the  lilting  lines,  and  when  he  came  to  the  sixth 
stanza  — 

"Salute  your  partners,"  comes  the  call, 

"All  join  hands  and  circle  round," 

"Grand  train  back,"  and  "  Balance  all," 
Footsteps  lightly  spurn  the  ground. 

"  Take  your  lady  and  balance  down  the  middle," 
To  the  merry  strains  of  the  corn-stalk  riddle, 

he  acted  out  the  various  figures  of  the  country  dance  de- 
scribed. 

His  lithe  form,  graceful  as  a  gazelle's,  glided  about  the 
stage,  with  a  rhythm  of  movement  which  showed  that 
his  whole  being  responded  to  the  music  of  the  orchestra 
and  to  the  beauty  of  his  own  conception.  Every  emotion 
depicted  in  the  lines  came  out  upon  his  face  and  found 
expression  in  his  wonderful  eyes.  The  audience  went 
wild  with  excitement  and  the  wine  of  their  applause  only 
served  to  stimulate  his  efforts.  The  recital  was  a  great 
success,  and  the  southern  people  who  had  been  carried 
back  to  "  old  plantation  days  "  by  the  vivid  poem-pic- 
tures and  skilful  acting  of  the  wonderful  negro  boy, 
were  the  most  enthusiastic  of  the  audience. 


66  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

Before  leaving  Narragansett  Pier,  Mr.  Dunbar  was 
presented  to  the  widow  of  Jefferson  Davis,  at  her  request. 
After  a  brief  conversation  with  the  young  man,  Mrs. 
Davis,  who  had  been  unable  to  attend  the  recital,  asked 
him  to  give  her  a  few  readings,  as  a  "  special  favor ! " 
So  delighted  was  this  stately  daughter  of  the  "  Old 
Dominion "  that  she  gave  her  unstinted  praise  and  ap- 
plause when  he  finished.  This  scene  is  one  worthy  to  go 
down  in  history  as  a  signal  triumph  for  the  African  race. 
A  full-blooded  negro  reciting  his  own  poems  to  the  widow 
of  Jeff  Davis !  Great  things  had  indeed  come  out  of 
Nazareth ! 

Delightful  events  followed  one  another  in  rapid  succes- 
sion in  those  days  for  Paul  Dunbar.  Before  he  went 
back  to  New  York,  Major  Pond  wrote  him  that  Dodd, 
Mead  &  Company  had  accepted  his  manuscript,  at  a 
good  price,  and  that  if  he  desired  they  would  advance 
him  $400.00  on  prospective  royalties ! 

Resisting  all  temptations  to  spend  this  first  large  sum 
of  money,  according  to  his  tastes,  Mr.  Dunbar  paid  it  all 
out  on  debts  which  he  felt  that  he  owed  to  his  friends  who 
had  "  advanced  "  it  to  him. 

His  arrangement  with  the  new  "  manager  "  was  not  so 
satisfactory  as  it  had  promised  to  be,  but  Mr.  Dunbar 
feeling  that  he  needed  such  discipline,  decided  to  go 
ahead  with  it,  if  possible. 

He  and  his  mother,  having  taken  up  their  residence  in 
Chicago  previous  to  his  New  York  visit,  Mr.  Dunbar 
went  there  and  resumed  his  readings.  He  also  wrote 
many  newspaper  and  magazine  articles  and  numerous 
poems  while  in  that  city. 


CHAPTER  VII 

ENGLAND 

IN  January  of  1897,  Mr.  Dunbar  had  an  offer  to  go  to 
England  as  a  public  entertainer  with  a  daughter  of  his 
former  New  York  manager,  and  feeling  that  this  might 
be  the  only  opportunity  he  would  ever  have  of  crossing 
the  sea,  he  accepted  the  proposition,  though  the  terms 
were  hard  and  his  manager  extremely  mercenary.  Phil- 
osophically he  said  :  "  They  are  going  to  make  it  hard 
for  me,  but  I  need  the  training,  and  I  shall  try  to  keep 
my  upper  lip  well  starched." 

On  February  8th,  Mr.  Dunbar  sailed  for  England,  and 
in  a  letter  written  his  mother  on  shipboard,  he  confided ; 

"  You  will  be  surprised  to  hear  that  Alice  Ruth  Moore 
ran  away  from  Boston,  and  came  to  bid  me  good-bye. 
She  took  everybody  by  storm.  She  was  very  much 
ashamed  of  having  run  away,  but  said  she  could  not  bear 
to  have  me  go  so  far  without  bidding  me  good-bye.  She 
is  the  brightest  and  sweetest  little  girl  I  have  ever  met, 
and  I  hope  you  will  not  think  it  is  silly,  but  Alice  and  I 
are  engaged.  You  know  this  is  what  I  have  wanted  for 
two  years." 

Thus,  childlike  and  trustful,  he  wrote  to  his  mother 
of  the  happy  culmination  of  his  first  and  only  love  affair. 
While  in  England  he  wrote  again  to  his  mother,  saying 
he  hoped  to  get  "  Alice  to  set  the  day,"  as  soon  as  he  re- 
turned to  America. 

Although  his  "  manager  "  soon  deserted  him,  Mr.  Dun- 
bar  found  a  warm  and  influential  friend  in  the  American 

67 


68  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

embassador,  Hon.  John  Hay,  who  arranged  an  entertain- 
ment at  which  Dunbar  read  several  of  his  best  poems  be- 
fore a  number  of  the  brightest  men  and  women  of  Lon- 
don. Other  poems,  having  been  set  to  music  by  promi- 
nent English  musicians,  were  sung  by  them  at  this  recital. 

He  was  a  guest  at  a  banquet  given  by  the  great  Savage 
Club  of  London,  where  he  was  asked  to  recite,  and  after 
the  first  number,  was  lifted  bodily  to  the  table,  and  en- 
thusiastically encored. 

Writing  of  this  occasion  to  a  friend  in  America,  Dun- 
bar  said : 

"  I  have  attended  a  banquet  given  by  the  great  Savage 
Club  of  London.  I  was  the  guest  of  the  secretary  of  the 
Royal  Geological  Society,  and  my  host  was  more  than 
gratified  at  the  reception  which  I  had  when  I  was  called 
upon  to  take  part  in  the  post-prandial  program,  as  I  re- 
ceived two  requests  to  come  back.  The  audience  was 
very  critical,  and  if  they  did  not  like  a  speaker  would  hiss 
him  down. 

"  I  have  also  been  entertained  at  tea  by  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Henry  M.  Stanley.  I  there  met  some  very  decent  people, 
but  the  men,  poor  fellows,  did  not  have  eye-glasses  enough 
to  go  around,  and  so  each  had  one  stuck  in  the  corner  of 
his  eye ! " 

Concerning  an  evening's  entertainment  which  Mr.  Dun- 
bar  gave  at  the  Southplace  Institute,  a  London  paper  car- 
ried the  following  notice : 

"  A  large  audience  at  the  Southplace  Institute,  listened 
yesterday  to  Mr.  Paul  Laurence  Dunbar' s  recitations  of 
some  of  his  own  poems,  which  have  excited  so  much  in- 
terest among  literary  men  in  the  United  States.  Mr. 
Dunbar  is  thought  to  be  the  first  of  his  race  who  has  thor- 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  69 

oughly  interpreted  the  dialect,  spirit  and  humor  of  the 
American  negro,  and  his  performance  was  indeed  unique. 
The  pieces  selected  were  from  his  '  Lyrics  of  Lowly  Life/ 
one  of  these,  'When  Malindy  Sings,'  being  an  artistic 
blending  of  drollery  and  of  pathos.  Another,  '  Accounta- 
bility/ represents  the  necessitarian  philosophy  of  a 
stricken  rogue:  and  a  third  was  a  pretty  love-ballad. 
The  poet  made  a  very  fine  impression  on  all  present." 

Paul  Dunbar  was  never  an  idler,  and  although  he  would 
certainly  have  been  justified  in  putting  in  his  leisure 
hours,  tramping  about  the  interesting  streets  of  old  Lon- 
don, and  adding  to  his  store  of  new-world  knowledge  a 
veneer  of  old-world  mould  and  tradition,  he  conscien- 
tiously remained  at  his  poor  lodgings,  and  wrote  his  first 
novel.  By  this  act,  he  exhibited  that  desire  to  be  provi- 
dent which  is  so  frequently  lacking  in  members  of  his  race. 
The  book,  written  in  London,  was  his  first  serious  prose 
effort,  and  was  entitled  "The  Uncalled."  It  was  really  a 
history  of  his  own  life.  So  few  were  the  avenues  open  to 
an  educated  colored  man,  that  it  was  thought  only  "  nat- 
ural" that  Dunbar  should  turn  to  the  ministry.  His 
knowledge  of  negro  ministers  gave  him  to  know  that  he 
was  thoroughly  capable  in  an  intellectual  way  to  cope 
with  the  best.  Situated  as  he  was,  with  the  wolf  of  pov- 
erty ever  growling  and  threatening  at  his  door — it  is 
greatly  to  the  credit  of  the  young  man  that  he  did  not 
yield  to  the  temptation  of  entering  the  ministry  as  a 
"  means  of  support."  But,  if  Paul  Dunbar  was  anything 
in  those  early  days,  he  was  honest.  He  did  not  believe 
in  eternal  punishment,  and  he  would  not  preach  it 
Realizing  that  he  had  not  received  the  divine  "  call,"  he 
would  not  go.  His  novel  reflects  the  struggle  he  had — 


70  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

and  his  final  triumph.  The  book  was  dedicated  to  his 
fiancee,  "  Alice,"  who  is  the  heroine  of  the  story. 

It  is  painful  to  chronicle  that  at  the  very  moment  when 
Dunbar's  recitals  were  about  to  bring  him  a  few  of  the 
dollars  of  which  he  stood  so  sorely  in  need,  his  erstwhile 
"  manager  "  returned  and  showing  a  contract  of  which  she 
had  never  consented  to  give  the  poet  a  copy — claimed  all 
the  proceeds  1 

Thus  he  was  left  penniless  in  a  strange  land.  In  this 
condition  he  was  compelled  to  send  home  to  America  for 
funds  for  his  return  voyage.  Money  was  cabled  him,  and 
he  returned  to  America,  poorer  in  purse,  but  considerably 
richer  in  sad  and  happy  experiences.  As  he  said  in  a  let- 
ter from  London : 

"It  amuses  me  to  hear  of  the  things  the  American 
papers  are  saying,  when  I  am  so  halting  over  here  be- 
tween doubt  and  fear  1  But  let  come  what  may,  I  have 
been  to  England  1 " 

As  soon  as  Mr.  Dunbar  reached  New  York,  he  sold  his 
novel  to  Lippincotfs  Magazine.  True  to  his  innate  hon- 
esty, he  pressed  upon  his  friend  who  had  cabled  him 
funds,  the  amount  he  owed,  though  by  so  doing,  he  liter- 
ally took  the  "  bread  out  of  his  own  mouth." 

"  The  Uncalled  "  received  favorable  comment,  but  not 
being  in  a  popular  vein  did  not  prove  especially  success- 
ful when  issued  later  in  book  form. 

Viewing  his  English  venture  as  a  whole,  one  may  not 
describe  it  better  than  did  the  poet  himself,  upon  his  re- 
turn to  America : 

"  Do  you  know,  disastrous  as  it  was  financially,  I  do 
not  regret  my  trip.  The  last  few  weeks  were  a  great 
compensation  for  all  I  suffered  ! " 


DR.    WILLIAM  BURNS 

The  young  physician  who  was  in  constant  attendance  upon  the 
poet  during  the  last  three  years  of  his  life,  and  whose  sudden 
death  was  a  terrible  blow  to  Mr.  Dunbar.  They  had  been 
warm  friends  from  childhood. 


COLONEL  ROBERT  G.  INGERSOLL 

Who,  attracted  by  the  merit  of  Mr.  Dunbar's  poems,  expressed 

a  desire  to  "  help,"  and  who  secured  for  him  a  situation 

'    in  the  Congressional  Library  at  Washington,  D.  C. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
THE  CONGRESSIONAL  LIBRARY 

THE  time  had  now  arrived  for  Colonel  Robert  G.  Inger- 
soll  to  make  good  his  promise  to  "  help."  While  Mr. 
Dunbar  was  in  London,  he  received  an  encouraging  let- 
ter from  the  Colonel,  advising  him  that  he  thought  it 
likely  he  could  secure  a  position  for  Mr.  Dunbar  in  the 
Congressional  Library.  How  well  this  promise  was  ful- 
filled is  shown  by  a  paragraph  in  the  records  of  the 
Library  at  Washington,  which  reads  : 

"  Paul  Laurence  Dunbar,  appointed  from  New  York  to 
position  assistant  in  Reading  Room,  Library  of  Congress, 
October  i,  1897,  at  a  salary  of  $720.00  per  annum  :  re- 
signed December  31,  1898,  to  give  full  time  to  his  literary 
work/' 

Mr.  Daniel  Murry,  under  whom  Mr.  Dunbar  worked  at 
the  Library,  wrote  his  biographer  concerning  the  ap- 
pointment as  follows : 

"  In  1897,  Mr.  Dunbar  was  made  an  assistant  to  me 
that  he  might  learn  library  methods  and  have,  at  the  same 
time,  one  who  would  take  an  interest  in  his  advancement. 
The  late  Colonel  Robert  Ingersoll  was  largely  responsible 
for  his  taking  the  position,  believing  that  it  would  afford 
him  an  opportunity  to  acquire  information  that  could  be 
turned  to  account  in  his  literary  career.  .  .  ." 

Under  a  dating  of  October  u,  1897,  Dunbar  said,  in 
a  letter  to  a  friend  : 

5  73 


74  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

"  I  have  landed  the  position  at  Washington.  It  is  a 
small  one,  but  it  means  a  regular  income,  the  which  I 
have  always  so  much  wanted.  .  .  . 

"  I  am  home  for  the  purpose  of  getting  my  mother 
ready  for  the  Washington  trip.  Her  health  is  very  far 
from  good,  and  I  want  her  settled  with  me,  as  soon  as 
possible.  Must  leave  here  Saturday  night  at  the  latest." 

While  Mr.  Dunbar  was  happy  to  have  obtained  regular 
employment,  and  went  to  his  work  with  his  native  en- 
thusiasm, it  was  with  real  regret  that  he  said  farewell  to 
his  childhood  home  at  Dayton.  Of  this  leave-taking  he 
wrote  while  packing  — 

"  I  am  at  last  at  home  getting  things  ready  for  our 
removal  to  the  east.  There  are  a  good  many  dear  mem- 
ories clustering  around  this  rickety  old  house  that  awake 
to  life  on  the  thought  of  leaving  it  permanently." 

In  going  to  Washington  and  becoming  identified  with 
the  brilliant  life  of  the  national  capital,  Paul  Dunbar  did 
not  forget  his  Toledo  friend,  through  whose  influence  all 
this  happiness  and  good  fortune  reached  him,  and  at  the 
very  beginning  of  his  career  at  the  Library  he  wrote  that 
friend  thanking  him  and  saying : 

"My  dear  Dr.  Tobey — I  shall  show  little  of  human 
gratitude  if  I  fail  to  deserve  the  kindness  you  have 
shown." 

It  was  this  ever-manifest  spirit  of  loving  gratitude  ex- 
hibited towards  his  benefactors  that  made  them  so  eager 
and  willing  to  do  what  they  could  to  aid  him.  His  heart, 
toward  this  particular  friend,  was  always  that  of  a  trusting 
child. 

Having  established  his  mother  in  a  pretty  home,  Mr. 
Dunbar  set  conscientiously  to  work  at  the  Library.  The 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  75 

exacting  duties  were  hard  for  one  of  his  temperament,  but 
he  made  a  brave  struggle  to  master  the  detail  cheer- 
fully. 

In  December,  1897,  he  wrote  an  Ohio  friend  — 

"  I  am  working  very  hard  these  days,  so  if  it  is  only  for 
the  idle  that  the  devil  runs  his  employment  bureau,  I  have 
no  need  of  his  services." 

He  has  spoken  of  this  year  as  "  his  pouring  time  "  as  so 
many  offers  of  positions  and  so  many  requests  for  poems 
and  stories  "  poured  in  "  upon  him.  One  of  the  flattering 
offers  that  came  to  him  was  the  tender  of  a  professorship 
in  Literature  and  Rhetoric  at  Claflin  University,  South 
Carolina.  He  did  not  accept  this,  but  was  pleased  to 
know  that  it  had  been  offered  him.  The  colored  people 
of  the  country  were  anxious  that  he  be  given  work  which 
they  thought  would  be  consistent  with  his  brilliant  attain- 
ments, and  they  did  not  think  that  the  Library  position 
was  of  any  special  credit  to  Paul  Laurence  Dunbar.  But 
the  poet,  having  "  come  up  through  great  tribulation " 
wisely  chose  to  stand  by  this  post  which  insured  him  a 
"  regular  income,"  and  afforded  him  such  splendid  oppor- 
tunities for  extending  the  scope  of  his  knowledge. 

From  the  first  Mr.  Dunbar's  articles  were  in  demand  by 
the  Washington  dailies,  but  these  contributions  were,  for 
the  most  part,  in  prose  and  Paul  Dunbar  was  essentially 
a  poet.  Of  the  newspaper  efforts  he  said  :  "  The  age  is 
materialistic.  Verse  isn't.  I  must  be  with  the  age.  So, 
I  am  writing  prose." 

This  mood  was  not  of  long  duration.  As  well  try  to 
compel  the  lark  to  ape  the  cackle  of  a  chicken,  as  to  guide 
Paul  Dunbar's  pen  for  long  in  the  paths  of  prose.  His 
work  was  very  creditable,  because  whatever  he  did  was 


76  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

done  well,  but  to  write  thus  was  to  "  plod,"  and  he  pre- 
ferred, as  he  so  gracefully  said  in  one  of  his  poems : 

"  To  fling  his  poetical  wings  to  the  breeze,  and  soar  in 
a  song,  etc." 

One  of  the  notable  song-poems  written  while  he  was  in 
the  capital  city  was  the  college  song  composed  for 
Booker  T.  Washington's  school  at  Tuskegee,  Alabama. 

Almost  a  decade  later,  this  was  sung  by  a  choir  of  fif- 
teen hundred  student  voices  upon  the  occasion  of  the 
twenty-fifth  anniversary  of  the  founding  of  Tuskegee  In- 
stitute. 

The  verses  called  "  Tuskegee  Song,"  and  set  to  the 
music  of  "  Fair  Harvard,"  follow : 

Tuskegee,  thou  pride  of  the  swift-growing  South, 

We  pay  thee  our  homage  to-day, 
For  the  worth  of  thy  teaching,  the  joy  of  thy  care, 

And  the  good  we  have  known  'neath  thy  sway. 

Oh,  long-striving  mother  of  diligent  sons, 

And  of  daughters  whose  strength  is  their  pride, 

We  will  love  thee  forever,  and  ever  shall  walk 
Thro'  the  oncoming  years  at  thy  side. 

Thy  hand  we  have  held  up  the  difficult  steeps, 

When  painful  and  slow  was  the  pace, 
And  onward  and  upward  we've  labored  with  thee 

For  the  glory  of  God  and  our  race. 

The  fields  smile  to  greet  us,  the  forests  are  glad, 

The  ring  of  the  anvil  and  hoe 
Have  a  music  as  thrilling  and  sweet  as  a  harp 

Which  thou  taught  us  to  hear  and  know. 

Oh,  Mother  Tuskegee,  thou  shinest  to-day 

As  a  gem  in  the  fairest  of  lands, 
Thou  gavest  the  heaven -blessed  power  to  see 

The  worth  of  our  minds  and  our  hands. 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  77 

We  thank  thee,  we  bless  thee,  we  pray  for  thee  years 

Imploring,  with  grateful  accord 
Full  fruit  for  thy  striving,  time  longer  to  strive, 

Sweet  love  and  true  labor's  reward. 

The  last  line  of  the  fifth  stanza — "  The  worth  of  our 
minds  and  our  hands "  voices  in  a  phrase  the  dominant 
note  in  Paul  Dunbar's  philosophy.  First — educate  the 
mind,  then  the  hand.  Many  of  his  contemporaries  in 
both  races  teach  otherwise,  believing  that  the  negro's 
"  hand "  should  first  be  given  cunning,  then  his  brain 
cultivated.  D unbar  very  shrewdly  exclaimed  upon  one 
occasion : 

"  How  could  his  hand  be  educated  without  his  head  to 
direct  it  ?  "  And  again,  in  speaking  to  a  young  woman 
who  had  come  to  interview  him,  he  said,  in  quick  re- 
sponse to  her  exclamation  : 

"  The  head  and  hand  must  work  together." 

"Why  do  you  say  that?  So  many  people  will  not 
agree  with  me  when  I  tell  them  that." 

Thus,  even  in  the  Tuskegee  song,  Mr.  Dunbar  incul- 
cates his  theory.  He  fully  appreciated  Tuskegee,  how- 
ever, and  its  famous  founder,  and  once  wrote  a  very  ex- 
cellent tribute  to  Mr.  Washington. 

The  days  at  the  Library  were  the  most  strenuous  in  the 
life  of  Paul  Laurence  Dunbar.  After  his  office  hours 
were  over,  he  would  work  far  into  the  night  at  his  writ- 
ing. Before  he  had  been  in  Washington  six  months  he 
had  written  all  the  stories  found  in  his  prose  book  "  Folks 
from  Dixie,"  which  appeared,  singly,  in  the  Cosmopolitan 
and  then  were  collected  into  book  form.  No  one  can 
read  these  beautiful  southern  stories  without  realizing  the 


78  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

sense  of  justice  to  each  race  which  Mr.  Dunbar  inculcates. 
There  are  no  bitter  tirades  against  the  masters  :  no  exag- 
gerated pen  pictures  of  down-trodden  negroes :  he  simply 
tells  the  truth  1 

This  book  was  dedicated  to  Dr.  H.  A.  Tobey,  to  whom 
in  sending  a  first  copy  of  the  volume  the  poet  wrote : 

11 1  am  afraid  that  the  wish  to  express  my  gratitude  to 
you  and  something  of  the  pleasure  and  pride  I  take  in 
our  friendship  has  led  me  to  take  some  liberties  with  your 
name.  But  I  can  only  hope  that  you  will  take  the  dedi- 
cation in  the  spirit  in  which  it  is  offered — that  of  grati- 
tude, friendship  and  respect  for  the  man  who  has  brought 
light  to  so  many  of  my  dark  hours." 

Having  reached  a  place  where  he  felt  justified  in  such 
a  step,  he  was  married  on  March  6,  1898,  to  his  boyhood 
sweetheart,  Miss  Alice  Ruth  Moore  of  New  Orleans.  Miss 
Moore  was  a  young  woman  of  great  talents  and  beauty, 
and  had  gained  no  enviable  position  in  the  world  of  letters. 
Perhaps  the  poet's  own  words,  quoted  from  a  letter  sent 
to  Dr.  Tobey  at  the  time,  will  describe  the  affair  better 
than  any  others  could  do  :  as  it  shows  his  childlike  love 
and  trust  for  his  old  friend,  and  his  desire  that  the 
"  doctor  "  be  pleased. 

Washington,  D.  C.  ,  '98. 

DEAR  DOCTOR  ; 

I  am  almost  afraid  to  write  you,  but  out  it  must 
come.     I  am  married  ! 

I  would  have  consulted  you,  but  the  matter  was  very 
quickly  done. 

People,  my  wife's  parents  and  others — were  doing 
everything  to  separate  us.  She  was  worried  and  harassed 
until  she  was  ill.  So  she  telegraphed  me  and  I  went  to 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  79 

New  York.  We  were  married  Sunday  night  by  the 
bishop  (Bishop  Potter  of  the  Episcopal  Church — a  great 
friend  of  the  poet's)  but  hope  to  keep  it  secret  for  a  while, 
as  she  does  not  wish  to  give  up  her  school. 

Everything  is  clean  and  honorable  and  save  for  the  fear 
of  separation  there  was  no  compulsion  to  the  step. 
I  hope  you  will  not  think  I  have  been  too  rash. 

Sincerely  yours, 

PAUL  L.  DUNBAR. 

Dr.  Tobey  answered  this  letter  in  a  few  days,  and  Dun- 
bar  again  wrote  him  — 

Washington,  D.  C.,  April  6y  1898. 
MY  DEAR  DR.  TOBEY  : 

I  was  very  glad  to  get  your  letter  and  find  that  you 
did  not  think  ill  of  my  step.  I  must  confess  I  was  very 
anxious  as  to  how  you  would  take  it.  As  to  mother — I 
told  her  before  it  took  place — she  was  in  the  secret,  though 
not  at  first  willing.  All  has  come  around  all  right  now 
and  my  wife  will  be  with  me  on  the  i8th.  My  announce- 
ment cards  will  then  go  out.  Mother  is  quite  enthusiastic 
and  my  new  mother-in-law  has  yielded  and  gracefully  ac- 
cepted the  situation. 

Aren't  you  saying  I  had  better  have  got  out  of  debt  be- 
fore taking  a  wife  ?  Honest,  aren't  you  ?  Well,  see  her 
and  know  her  and  I  won't  need  to  make  any  plea  for  my- 
self. Her  own  personality  will  do  that. 

To  his  biographer  to  whom  was  given  the  privilege  of 
reading  letters  covering  a  long  period  of  years,  it  was 
very  evident  that  those  bearing  dates  of  his  first  married 
years  contained  the  only  mention  of  real  happiness  that 
came  into  his  shadowed  life. 

The  confining  and  exacting  work  at  the  Library,  to- 
gether with  the  dust  from  the  books  made  distressing  in- 
roads upon  the  never  abundant  health  of  the  poet.  The 


80  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

consuming  thirst  for  knowledge  and  the  irrepressible  de- 
sire to  create  new  beauties  for  the  art  galleries  of  literature, 
were  out  of  proportion  to  his  physical  resources,  and  in 
the  autumn  of  1898  he  resigned  his  library  position  to  de- 
vote what  strength  he  could  spare  to  literary  and  orator- 
ical effort. 

While  still  employed  at  the  Library,  Mr.  Dunbar  was 
called  to  New  York  to  attend  a  meeting  at  which  the 
higher  education  of  the  negro  was  discussed.  He  was 
invited  to  recite  and  did  so.  A  gentleman  from  Boston, 
who  had  gone  to  the  meeting,  intending  to  discourage  the 
higher  education  of  the  negro,  immediately  subscribed 
one  thousand  dollars  for  a  fund  towards  that  end.  Dun- 
bar  afterwards  smilingly  said  to  an  acquaintance,  when  re- 
lating this  incident : 

"  Little  did  he  know  that  I  had  never  been  beyond  the 
high  schools  of  Dayton." 

In  the  audience  was  a  gentleman  from  Albany,  who  on 
his  return  told  Mrs.  Merrill — a  prominent  society  woman 
of  Albany,  New  York,  that  when  she  desired  to  give 
another  public  function  she  could  not  do  better  than  to 
secure  Dunbar,  and  before  the  poet  left  New  York,  a  tele- 
gram was  sent  to  his  Washington  address  by  Mrs.  Mer- 
rill, asking  terms  for  a  recital.  Up  to  that  time  $50.00 
had  been  the  amount  received.  His  wife,  appreciating 
that  he  must  be  wanted  badly,  answered  : 

"  One  hundred  dollars."  The  offer  was  accepted,  and 
the  time  fixed  for  the  recital. 

When  Mr.  Dunbar  alighted  at  the  Albany  station,  upon 
the  occasion  of  this  second  visit  to  that  city,  he  handed 
the  check  for  his  trunk  to  a  negro  porter.  The  man 
looked  at  him  in  poorly  concealed  surprise  and  said  : 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  81 

"  Wha'  do  yo'  want  dat  trunk  to  go  ?  " 

Dunbar  answered,  "  To  the  Kenmore  Hotel.'1 

"  Yo'  gwine  to  wuk  dah  ?  " 

"  No/'  said  the  poet,  and  started  on. 

Again  he  was  addressed  by  the  porter:  "Wha'  yo' 
want  dat  trunk  to  go  ?  " 

"  To  the  Kenmore,"  said  Dunbar  with  dignity. 

The  man  stared  at  him  incredulously  and  for  the  third 
time  ventured  a  question  :  "  What  yo'  gwine  to  do  dah  ?  " 

Dunbar  answered,  "  Stop." 

The  porter's  amazement  had  now  reached  the  superla- 
tive degree — but  he  regained  his  speech  long  enough  to 
say: 

"Well,  goon!" 

So  did  the  shadow  of  prejudice  ever  fall  across  the  path 
of  poor  Paul  Dunbar.  The  negro  porter  is  only  a  type. 
Having  been  held  so  long  in  the  bonds  of  slavery,  and 
having  been  taught  from  the  cradle  that  the  black  man  is 
his  white  brother's  intellectual  inferior,  it  is  impossible  for 
some  of  the  race  to  realize  the  fact  that  there  are  excep- 
tions to  the  rule.  This  truth  was  ever  present  in  Dun- 
bar's  mind,  and  once  he  exclaimed  bitterly : 

"  My  position  is  most  unfortunate.  I  am  a  black  white 
man,"  and  so  he  was. 

Upon  reaching  the  Kenmore  Hotel,  Mr.  Dunbar  was 
shown  to  a  suite  of  rooms,  consisting  of  sitting-room,  bed- 
room and  bath.  Soon  a  negro  waiter  came  to  take  his 
order  for  dinner,  and  looked  at  him  in  surprise.  Then  he 
said: 

"  How  did  you  get  dese  rooms  ?  Dese  is  de  rooms  dat 
Helen  Gould  occupied  las'  week.  Guess  Mis'  Merrill 
done  seed  de  pr'ietah."  He  would  not  have  dared  say 


82  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

such  words  to  a  white  patron,  regardless  of  his  mental 
calibre,  but  here  was  one  of  the  greatest  geniuses  that  the 
world  has  known,  insulted  because  of  his  color,  by  one  of 
his  own  race  1  Blind,  narrow,  prejudiced  humanity  1 
How  small  all  this  will  look  in  the  light  of  eternity  ! 

This  recital  at  Albany  was  one  of  the  most  successful 
that  Mr.  Dunbar  had  ever  given,  and  brought  him  in 
touch  with  the  best  of  Albany  society,  and  with  many  of 
the  leading  men  of  the  state. 

That  Paul  Dunbar  made  good  use  of  the  opportunities 
afforded  at  the  Library  for  broadening  the  horizon  of  his 
mind  was  ever  after  evident.  It  was  seldom,  indeed,  that 
a  conversation  on  any  important  theme  was  inaugurated 
in  his  presence,  that  he  was  not  able  to  join  it  intelligently. 
He  made  a  thorough  and  unbiased  study  of  race  prob- 
lems, and  although  he  was  always  loyal  to  and  hopeful 
for  the  man  of  pure  African  blood,  and  while  he  realized 
the  wholesome  results  of  centuries  of  refinement,  educa- 
tion and  culture  in  the  Caucasian,  he  was  far  too  loyal  and 
too  honest  not  to  realize  that  each  race  and  every  race 
has  its  own  peculiar  gifts  and  graces.  Among  his  papers, 
found  after  he  passed  away,  was  a  scrap  on  which  he  had 
written : 

"  It  is  one  of  the  peculiar  phases  of  Anglo-Saxon  con- 
ceit to  refuse  to  believe  that  every  black  man  does  not 
want  to  be  white." 

When  Horace  J.  Rollin,  the  pioneer  exponent  of  the 
ultimate  wholesome  and  beneficent  result  of  race-blending, 
embodied  the  evolutionary  theory  in  his  notable  novel, 
"  Yetta  Segal,"  Paul  Dunbar,  to  whom  the  author  sent  a 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  83 

copy  of  the  book,  wrote  a  most  remarkable  letter.  It  is 
such  a  revelation  of  the  depths  of  research  which  his 
plummet  had  sounded,  and  is  couched  in  such  character- 
istically courteous,  though  cautious  phrase,  that  it  is  given 
in  full  herewith : 

Library  of  Congress, 
Washington,  D.   C.,  July  28,  '98. 

MY  DEAR  MR.  ROLLIN: 

The  delay  which  I  have  allowed  in  answering 
your  letter  so  long  ago  received,  does  not  denote  me 
truly  !  It  is  all  false  in  indicating  that  I  am  not  greatly 
interested  in  your  inquiry  into  the  psychic  phenomena  of 
race  blending. 

While  so  far  I  have  found  the  observable  result  of 
race  blending  less  strong  than  either  of  the  parent  races, 
yet,  I  can  see  how  the  cosmopolite  of  the  future  might 
be  the  combination  of  the  best  in  all  the  divisions  of  the 
human  family — each  race  supplying  what  all  the  others 
lacked. 

Your  letter  has  made  me  think,  and  I  am  glad  to  see 
such  a  work  as  yours  coming  from  Ohio  which  has  done 
too  little  in  the  scientific  and  literary  world. 

I  hope  your  work  will  have  the  success  which  I  really 
believe  its  importance  deserves. 

Thanking  you  for  your  good  letter  and  asking  your 
forgiveness  for  an  unavoidable  delay  in  answering,  I  am 
Sincerely  yours, 

PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR. 


CHAPTER  IX 
TUSKEGEE,  THE  SOUTH,— BREAKING  HEALTH 

IN  February,  1899,  Mr.  Dunbar  went  to  the  Tuskegee 
School  of  Booker  T.  Washington,  and  while  there  gave  a 
reading  in  the  chapel  to  the  students  and  teachers.  He 
also  gave  a  number  of  lectures  on  English  composition 
before  the  two  advanced  classes  of  the  school. 

The  annual  conference  of  negro  farmers  convened  dur- 
ing Mr.  Dunbar' s  visit  to  Tuskegee,  and  he  reported  this 
for  the  Philadelphia  Press.  A  story  is  told  of  a  little  in- 
cident which  occurred  in  connection  with  this  convention. 
Mr.  Washington  is  said  to  have  gone  to  Mr.  Dunbar's 
room  the  evening  before  the  convention,  and  is  quoted 
as  having  said,  more  in  a  spirit  of  mischief  than  earnest : 
.  "  Paul,  I  want  you  to  write  me  a  poem  of  welcome  to 
be  read  to-morrow." 

Dunbar,  with  a  serious  face  and  just  the  twinkle  of  a 
smile  in  his  eyes,  replied : 

"All  right,  sir,  you  shall  have  it." 

That  night,  Paul  Dunbar  burned  the  midnight  oil,  but 
next  day  when  it  came  his  turn  to  say  a  word  of  welcome 
to  the  members  of  the  conference,  he  rose  with  alacrity, 
and  stepping  to  the  front  of  the  stage,  read  a  poem  of 
such  beauty  and  appropriateness  that  his  audience  was 
charmed.  No  congratulations  were  more  extravagant 
than  those  of  Booker  T.  Washington,  for  he  alone  knew 
that  the  poem  was  the  product  of  the  past  twenty-four 
hours! 

84 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  85 

Mr.  Dunbar  made  a  rather  extensive  tour  of  the  south 
before  going  back  to  Washington. 

It  will  be  remembered  by  the  observant  reader  of  this 
biography  that  in  an  early  letter  of  Mr.  Dunbar' s  he  said 
that  he  wished  to  make  a  thorough  study  of  his  black 
brother  in  the  North  before  seeing  him  in  the  South.  It 
is  interesting  and  pleasing  to  reflect  that  Mr.  Dunbar  was 
one  of  the  rare  few,  who,  planning  their  life-work  from 
the  beginning,  are  able  to  carry  these  plans  through  as 
originally  designed. 

Mr.  Dunbar  had  certainly  had  ample  opportunity  for 
the  study  of  the  negro  in  the  North  before  he  made  his 
itinerary  of  the  southern  states.  His  stories  called  "  The 
Strength  of  Gideon/'  written  south  of  Mason  and  Dixon's 
line,  and  published  in  northern  magazines,  and  a  second 
book,  published  four  years  later,  under  title  of  "  In  Old 
Plantation  Days,"  shows  that  he  did  not  exhaust  his  fund 
of  Dixie-folk  lore  in  the  "  Strength  of  Gideon." 

Soon  after  Mr.  Dunbar's  return  to  Washington,  in 
March,  1899,  he  received  a  very  flattering  call  to  come  to 
Boston  and  read  at  the  Hollis  Street  Theatre  (at  a  meet- 
ing held  in  the  interests  of  Tuskegee  Institute).  He  ac- 
cepted, but  that  his  strength  was  unequal  to  the  effort  is 
shown  by  a  letter,  written  to  an  Ohio  friend  from  West 
Medford,  Mass.,  dated  March  2Oth,  1899: 

"  I  am  lying  in  bed  ill  and  Mrs.  Dunbar  is  kind  enough 
to  take  down  my  letters  for  me. 

"  My  readings  here  have  been  very  successful,  the  one 
at  the  Hollis  Street  Theatre,  Boston,  having  quite  a 
triumph.  But  they  have  been  a  little  too  much  for  me, 
and  I  am  now  suffering  from  a  cold,  fatigue  and  a  bad 
throat. 


86  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

"  I  thank  you  for  writing  Mr.  T.  I  hope  I  am  not  too 
poetical  to  take  an  interest  in  the  realities  of  life  of  which 
he  speaks.  He  may  be  sure  I  am  doing  what  I  can  in 
my  humble  way  for  the  betterment  of  my  brother  in  the 
South." 

Mr.  Dunbar's  fourth  book  of  verse — "  Lyrics  of  the 
Hearthside" — came  out  in  1899,  and  was  very  appro- 
priately dedicated  to  "  Alice,"  his  wife,  who  was  also  his 
amanuensis,  his  secretary  and  his  wise  counselor. 

In  April  of  1899,  Mr.  Dunbar  read  his  poems  at  Lex- 
ington, Kentucky,  with  great  success.  He  then  made 
preparations  to  go  to  Albany,  where  he  was  to  have 
given  a  recital  before  a  distinguished  audience  and  to 
have  been  introduced  by  the  Governor,  Theodore  Roose- 
velt. 

With  his  doting  mother  and  devoted  wife  he  began  the 
eastern  journey,  but  when  he  reached  New  York,  he  was 
taken  ill  with  pneumonia,  and  obliged  to  go  to  the  home 
of  an  old  friend  of  his  own  race,  who  lived  in  humble 
rooms  on  an  upper  floor  of  a  shabby  apartment  building. 

As  soon  as  Dunbar' s  friends  learned  of  his  serious  ill- 
ness, they  began  sending  him  messages,  flowers  and  lux- 
uries. They  sought  him  out  too,  and  called  in  person. 
Not  wishing  to  disturb  him,  but  being  extremely  anxious 
to  know  about  his  health,  William  Dean  Howells  went  to 
his  humble  lodgings,  and  toiling  up  the  stairs,  inquired 
about  him  at  the  back  door ! 

When  he  was  able  to  hold  a  pen  he  wrote  to  his  friends. 
In  one  of  these  letters  he  said : 

"  I  am  going  to  trust  myself  to  write,  though  I  am 
pretty  weak  yet.  .  .  .  After  leaving  the  hospital,  my 
doctor  insists  that  I  must  go  to  the  Adirondacks,  and 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  87 

stay  there  through  October,  then  to  Colorado.  They 
think  I  am  a  millionaire  !  But  there  are  pleasant  things ! 
Yesterday  Bishop  Potter  sent  me  two  basket-loads  of 
luxuries.  To-day  I  received  notice  from  the  board  of 
trustees  (white)  of  Atlanta  University  (colored)  that  they 
had  conferred  on  me  the  honorary  degree  of  Master  of 
Arts  in  recognition  of  my  literary  work.  Of  course  it  is 
an  empty  honor,  but  very  pleasant." 

Three  weeks  later  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dunbar  went  to  Brod- 
head's  Bridge,  New  York,  where  they  might  have  the 
mountain  air  and  the  benefit  of  beautiful  surroundings. 

Mr.  Dunbar' s  mother  spent  that  summer  in  Hampton, 
Virginia.  Concerning  this  outing  of  his  mother's  the 
poet  wrote  a  friend  : 

"  Mother,  I  may  have  told  you,  is  at  Hampton,  and 
thereby  hangs  a  tale,  which  I  think  you  can  appreciate. 
When  she  first  went  down,  the  woman  with  whom  she 
stopped  charged  her  a  very  reasonable  price.  Then 
there  was  an  influx  of  visitors,  and  inquiries  poured  in  as 
to  my  health.  When  the  landlady  found  out  that  she 
was  the  mother  of  the  author  she  had  read  of,  she  raised 
the  board.  Sic  Fama  I " 

Although  the  poet  went  to  the  Catskills  for  recreation 
and  quiet,  his  feverish  desire  to  work  gave  him  no  rest, 
and  according  to  his  own  account,  he  wrote  and  had  ac- 
cepted in  the  first  month  he  was  there,  one  three-thousand 
word  article,  two  stories  and  three  poems,  and  many 
other  things  not  catalogued. 

E.  C.  Stedman  wrote  Mr.  Dunbar  asking  permission  to 
use  some  of  his  work  in  a  new  American  Anthology,  and 
this  was  readily  given  by  the  poet. 


88  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

Many  persons  suffering  from  pulmonary  troubles  have 
found  relief  in  the  balmy  air  of  the  Catskills,  but  poor 
Paul  Dunbar  was  so  little  benefited  that  he  was  com- 
pelled to  take  the  much-dreaded  journey  to  Colorado. 
Mrs.  Matilda  Dunbar  returned  from  Virginia  and  accom- 
panied her  son  and  his  wife  on  their  western  journey. 
Their  first  stop  was  at  Denver,  and  Mr.  Dunbar  sent  a 
note  to  Dr.  Tobey,  which  is  important  in  that  it  shows 
how  Dunbar' s  fame  had  gone  before  him. 

Denver,  Colorado,  September  12,  'pp. 
MY  DEAR  DOCTOR  : 

Here  we  are,  the  whole  "  kit  and  bilin'  "  in  Denver, 
and  already  I  feel  considerably  reconciled  to  my  fate.  I 
am  well  impressed  with  the  town,  though  I  have  been 
here  but  a  few  hours. 

Only  one  thing — or  really,  several  things  in  one — have 
bothered  me — the  reporters.  They  have  taken  the  house 
and  I  have  not  yet  had  time  to  rest  from  my  journey. 

.  .  .  The  Denver  Post  wishes  to  pay  my  expenses 
if  I  will  travel  slowly  over  the  state  and  give  occasionally 
my  impressions  of  it.  They  wired  me  at  Chicago,  and 
have  sent  two  men  to  interview  me  since  I  have  been 
there.  They  claim  the  trips  would  be  healthful,  that  my 
wife  could  go  along  with  the  best  accommodations,  and 
that  I  only  need  do  what  I  want  in  the  way  of  writing. 
These  people  are  the  New  York  Journal  of  the  west ! 

In  the  early  days  of  October,  1899,  the  Dunbars  found 
a  suitable  home  at  Harmon,  a  small  town  near  Denver. 
Mr.  Dunbar  described  this  temporary  domicile  as  a 
"  dainty  little  house,  very  pleasant  and  sunny.1' 

From  Harmon  he  wrote,  soon  after  going  there,  to  an 
Ohio  friend,  "  I  have  an  old  cob  of  a  hor.se,  and  some  kind 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  89 

of  a  buggy  for  me  to  jog  in  as  the  doctor  forbids  much 
walking  and  entirely  prohibits  bicycling." 

This  "  old  cob  of  a  horse  "  became  so  dear  to  the  poet 
that  he  immortalized  her  in  his  dialect  poem  "  That  oF 
mare  of  mine,"  for  which  he  received  a  sum  equal  to  half 
the  price  he  paid  for  the  mare. 

That  Mr.  Dunbar  realized  his  cure  could  not  be  perma- 
nent, but  that  he  was  determined  to  be  patient  and  cheer- 
ful is  manifested  by  a  few  paragraphs  in  a  Denver  letter 
of  his : 

"  Well,  it  is  something  to  sit  down  under  the  shadow  of 
the  Rocky  Mountains  even  if  one  only  goes  there  to  die." 

"  Have  you  been  reading  Stevenson's  letters  as  they 
run  in  the  ScribneSs  Magazine  ?  There  was  a  brave  fel- 
low for  you,  and  I  always  feel  stronger  for  reading  his 
manly  lines." 

He  speaks  in  this  same  characteristic  epistle  of  his 
health  and  of  the  doctors  having  examined  his  sputum, 
and  says,  "  I  too  have  looked  upon  the  *  little  red  hair-like 
devils'  who  are  eating  up  my  lungs.  So  many  of  us  are 
cowards  when  we  look  into  the  cold,  white  eyes  of  death, 
and  I  suppose  I  am  no  better  or  braver  than  the  rest  of 
humanity." 

The  life  of  Paul  Laurence  Dunbar  while  in  Colorado 
was  a  long,  losing  fight  for  health.  Hope  and  fear  were 
alternate  guests  in  his  heart,  but  while  his  naturally 
optimistic  spirit  drank  deep  of  the  sunshine,  his  lungs 
constantly  weakened  by  the  ravages  of  the  "little  red 
devils"  of  disease — could  not  assimilate  the  beneficent 
qualties  of  the  light  and  air. 

As  often  as  his  strength  would  permit  he  recited, 
many  of  the  wealthiest  homes  of  Denver  being  opened  to 


90  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

him,  and  he  also  made  a  number  of  short  trips  to  various 
other  towns  and  cities. 

One  of  the  stars  in  Dunbar's  social  firmament  was  the 
friendship  for  him  of  Major  William  Cooke  Daniels,  a 
young  merchant  of  Denver.  The  young  man  was  pas- 
sionately fond  of  Paul  Dunbar  and  of  his  poetry. 
Almost  every  day  he  rode  out  to  see  Dunbar,  or  sent  his 
carriage  and  coachman  for  him  to  come  to  the  palatial 
home  in  the  city.  But,  Dunbar  was  proud  and  sensitive, 
and  although  he  fairly  worshiped  young  Daniels,  we  find 
him  writing  an  Ohio  friend  — 

"  I  must  tell  you  more  about  this  friend  of  mine  some 
time.  He  is  just  two  years  my  senior,  but  was  Major  in 
Law  ton's  Division,  and  commended  for  bravery  and 
efficiency.  He  is  a  fine  fellow,  but  I  am  going  to  termi- 
nate my  friendship  with  him.  You  will  wonder  why. 
Well  he  is  immensely  wealthy  for  his  age,  possessing 
something  like  two  millions  of  dollars,  and  all  the  favors 
come  from  his  side.  I  spend  an  afternoon  each  week 
with  him.  He  has  the  finest  private  library  in  Denver,  and 
he  presses  upon  me  the  loan  of  expensive  books.  He 
wants  to  take  me  duck-shooting  and  provide  everything. 
We  smoke  together  and  read  and  chat  for  hours,  but  the 
books  and  cigars  are  always  his.  When  I  was  doing  my 
new  story,  he  actually  took  time  from  his  business  (the 
management  of  the  finest  department  store  here)  to  help 
me  on  a  stampede  scene.  He  is  an  enthusiast  and  I  like 
him,  but  somehow  I  always  feel  a  bit  cheaper  by  his  kind- 
ness, though  I  know  I  should  not,  for  he  is  very  genuine." 

The  friend  to  whom  Dunbar  wrote  this  letter  wisely 
pointed  out  to  him  that  Mr.  Daniels  was  no  doubt  receiv- 
ing as  much  as  he  gave,  and  that  he  doubtless  prized  the 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  91 

poet's  charming  society  more  than  silver  or  gold.  It  is 
therefore  with  satisfaction  that  we  note  the  "  new  novel " 
— called  "  The  Love  of  Landry,"  dedicated  to  "  my  friend 
Major  William  Cooke  Daniels."  It  is  a  Colorado  novel, 
and  shows  how  quickly  and  naturally  Mr.  Dunbar  learned 
to  write  of  the  western  plains  and  ranches.  He  was  a 
veritable  mental  chameleon,  taking  on  the  exact  color  of 
his  surroundings,  but  better  still,  he  was  able  to  transmit 
his  impressions  to  paper  so  vividly  that  the  characters 
and  scenes  stand  out  before  the  reader's  vision  as  though 
painted  on  canvas. 


CHAPTER  X 
BACK  TO  WASHINGTON 

IN  the  spring  of  1900,  the  Dunbars  went  back  to  Wash- 
ington. The  Colorado  trip  did  not  accomplish  for  Mr. 
Dunbar's  health  what  they  had  all  hoped  it  might,  but  he 
returned  to  Washington,  trusting  that  he  should  now  be 
able  to  live  there  and  make  it  his  headquarters.  Early  in 
the  summer,  however,  it  was  found  necessary  for  him  to 
"  move  on1*  again,  and  he  and  his  wife  went  again  to  the 
Catskills.  A  rather  pleasant  summer  was  spent  there,  but 
the  ravages  of  consumption  had  only  been  checked,  and 
it  was  with  a  sinking  heart  that  the  gifted  man  returned 
once  more  to  Washington. 

It  has  seemed  right  to  quote  just  here  a  paragraph  or 
two  from  an  article  which  appeared  in  the  March,  1906, 
issue  of  Talent  Magazine.  This  quotation  will  explain  at 
last  an  incident  of  which  many  of  Mr.  Dunbar's  friends 
read  with  much  surprise  and  regret  at  the  time  of  its 
occurrence. 

While  one  must  acknowledge,  with  the  poet,  that  he 
made  a  grievous  mistake,  still  this  admission  is  tinged 
with  a  feeling  of  shame  that  American  newspapers  must 
needs  have  heralded  the  unfortunate  affair  all  over  the 
country. 

The  incident  to  which  Mr.  Pearson  of  Talent  refers 
happened  late  in  the  autumn  of  1900. 

"  It  has  been  frequently  reported  in  the  public  prints 
that  Dunbar  was  a  drunkard.  Though  it  was  founded  on 

92 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  93 

truth,  it  was  not  the  whole  truth.  With  a  friend  I  had 
engaged  Dunbar  to  give  an  evening  of  readings  at  Evans- 
ton,  Illinois.  We  had  thoroughly  advertised  the  event, 
and  a  large  audience  from  the  University  and  the  city 
were  present  to  hear  him.  At  eight  o'clock,  a  messenger 
brought  me  word  that  he  had  broken  a  dinner  engage- 
ment at  the  Woman's  College,  and  that  no  word  had 
been  received  from  him.  After  an  anxious  delay  he  ar- 
rived a  half  hour  late  and  with  him  were  a  nurse,  a  phy- 
sician and  his  half-brother,  Mr.  Murphy.  The  first  num- 
ber or  two  could  not  be  heard,  but  not  until  he  had  read 
one  poem  the  second  time  did  we  suspect  the  true  cause 
of  his  difficulty  in  speaking.  His  condition  grew  steadily 
worse,  so  that  most  of  the  people  left  in  disgust.  The 
report  was  passed  about  that  he  was  intoxicated.  The 
Chicago  papers  printed  full  accounts  of  the  incident,  and 
it  was  copied  throughout  the  country. 

"  The  following  letter  which  has  never  been  published, 
explains  the  situation. 

"  321  Spruce  St.,  Washington,  D.  C. 

"  PROFESSOR  P.  M.  PEARSON  : 

"  DEAR  SIR  :  Now  that  I  am  at  home  and  settled, 
I  feel  that  an  explanation  is  due  you  from  me.  I  could 
not  see  you  as  you  asked,  because  I  was  ashamed  to. 
My  brother  went,  but  you  were  gone. 

"  The  clipping  you  sent  is  too  nearly  true  to  be  an- 
swered. I  had  been  drinking.  This  had  partially  in- 
toxicated me.  The  only  injustice  lies  in  the  writer's  not 
knowing  that  there  was  a  cause  behind  it  all,  beyond  mere 
inclination.  On  Friday  afternoon  I  had  a  severe  hemor- 
rhage. This  I  was  fool  enough  to  try  to  conceal  from  my 
family,  for,  as  I  had  had  one  the  week  before,  I  knew  they 
would  not  want  me  to  read.  Well,  I  was  nervously  anx- 


94  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

ious  not  to  disappoint  you,  and  so  I  tried  to  bolster  myself 
up  on  stimulants.  It  was  the  only  way  that  I  could  have 
stood  up  at  all.  But  I  feel  now  that  I  had  rather  have  dis- 
appointed you  wholly  than  to  have  disgraced  myself  and 
made  you  ashamed. 

"  As  to  the  program,  I  had  utterly  forgotten  that  there 
was  a  printed  one.  I  am  very  sorry  and  ashamed,  be- 
cause I  do  not  think  that  the  cause  excuses  the  act. 

"  I  have  cancelled  all  my  engagements  and  given  up 
reading  entirely.  They  are  trying  to  force  me  back  to 
Denver,  but  I  am  ill  and  discouraged,  and  don't  care  much 
what  happens. 

"  Don't  think  that  this  is  an  attempt  at  vindication.  It 
is  not.  Try  to  forgive  me  as  far  as  forgiveness  is  possible. 

"  Sincerely  yours, 

"  PAUL  L.  DUNBAR. 

"  P.  S.  I  have  not  told  you  that  I  was  under  the  doctor's 
care  and  in  bed  up  until  the  very  day  I  left  here  for  Chi- 
cago. There  had  been  a  similar  flow,  and  I  came  against 
advice,  and  now  I  see  the  result. 


"Such  an  explanation  silences  criticism.  But  the  re- 
port has  been  widely  circulated,  and  afterwards  it  was  often 
revived,  without  cause." 

The  winter  of  1900-01  was  spent  with  Washington  as 
his  permanent  address,  but  even  though  his  health  would 
ill  permit  of  it,  he  made  a  number  of  trips  to  various  parts 
of  the  country  to  recite. 

On  March  ist,  1901,  Mr.  Dunbar  received  a  parchment 
appointing  him  as  aid  with  rank  of  colonel  in  the  Inau- 
gural Parade  of  President  McKinley.  Concerning  this 
appointment,  Mr.  Dunbar  said,  several  years  later  to  his 
biographer, — 

"When  the  document  was  brought  to  me,  I  refused 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  95 

positively  to  appear  in  the  parade,  as  I  did  not  consider 
myself  a  sufficiently  good  horseman.  So  I  sent  the  gen- 
tleman away  with  that  answer,  but  as  soon  as  he  was  out 
of  the  house,  my  wife  and  mother  made  siege  upon  me, 
and  compelled  me  to  run  after  him.  I  remember  the  oc- 
casion well,  how  I  ran  down  my  front  steps  in  house- 
jacket  and  slippers  and  calling  to  my  late  visitor,  told  him 
that  I  had  changed  my  mind,  perforce."  Mr.  Dunbar 
appeared  in  the  inaugural  parade,  three  days  afterwards. 

A  month  later  finds  him  writing  from  Jacksonville, 
Florida,  to  a  friend  in  the  North : 

"  Down  here  one  finds  my  poems  recited  everywhere. 
Young  men  help  themselves  through  school  by  speaking 
them,  and  the  schools  help  their  own  funds  by  sending 
readers  out  with  them  to  the  winter  hotels.  Very  largely 
I  am  out  of  it.  Both  my  lungs  and  my  throat  are  bad, 
and,  from  now  on,  it  seems  like  merely  a  fighting  race 
with  Death.  If  this  is  to  be  so,  I  feel  like  pulling  my 
horse,  and  letting  the  white  rider  go  in  without  a  contest.'1 

Fooled  by  the  false  courage  that  alternates  with  despair 
in  the  lives  of  tuberculosis  sufferers,  Dunbar  spent  a  hope- 
ful summer,  in  spite  of  this  spring-time  discouragement. 
He  even  went  so  far  as  to  buy  a  house  and  establish  a 
beautiful  home  in  Washington.  But  Fate  did  not  intend 
that  this  darling  child  of  Genius  should  enjoy  for  long 
any  of  the  good  things  of  life,  and  less  than  a  year  later, 
the  most  terrible  tragedy  of  his  life  occurred.  His  home 
was  broken  up,  and  he  left  Washington  forever.  In  such 
very  personal  and  heart-touching  matters  it  has  always 
seemed  to  his  biographer  that  the  world  should  have  no 
interest.  This  brilliant  pair,  having  walked  for  several 


96  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

years  together,  at  last  came  to  a  parting  of  the  ways. 
Neither  has  spoken  to  say  why  they  parted  there,  each 
going  ever  after  alone — and,  an  attempt  at  explanation 
would  be  unkind  to  the  living  and  unjust  to  the  dead. 
One  of  his  friends  has  given  his  biographer  a  letter  writ- 
ten under  date  of  July  27th,  1902,  which  being  as  much 
as  the  poet  cared  to  reveal  to  a  lifelong  and  trusted  friend, 
should  suffice  even  the  most  curious  of  those  interested  in 
the  story  of  his  life.  He  writes  as  follows  : 

"  You  will  be  seriously  shocked  to  hear  that  Mrs.  Dun- 
bar  and  I  are  now  living  apart,  and  the  beautiful  home  I 
had  at  Washington  is  a  thing  of  the  past.  ...  I  am 
greatly  discouraged  and  if  I  could  do  anything  else,  I 
should  give  up  writing.  Something  within  me  seems  to 
be  dead.  There  is  no  spirit  or  energy  left  in  me.  My 
upper  lip  has  taken  on  a  droop." 

This  letter  is  written  from  Chicago,  where  Mr.  Dunbar 
went,  accompanied  by  his  faithful  little  mother,  when  the 
crash  came. 

Mr.  Dunbar  wrote  his  old  friend,  Mr.  Charles  Thatcher 
at  Toledo,  in  December  of  1902  — 

"My  plans  are  few  but  definite.  There  is  a  mid- 
winter's book  of  poems  forthcoming —  '  Lyrics  of  Love 
and  Laughter/  and  an  illustrated  one  for  next  fall.  An 
Ohio  novel  is  promised  to  Lippincotfs,  and  dialect 
stories  and  verses  to  various  periodicals.  Besides  this  I 
shall  possibly  read  in  the  southwest  during  the  latter  part 
of  Jar.aary.  My  appearance  is  robust,  but  my  cough  is 
about  as  bad  as  it  can  be." 

Thus  the  unquenchable  ambition  of  Paul  Laurence 
Dunbar  whipped  the  frail  flesh  to  its  labor  and  accom- 
plished an  almost  unbelievable  amount  of  work  in  those 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  97 

two  years — when  his  heart  was  broken  and  his  spirit 
crushed. 

His  days  were  not  all  cloudy,  however,  the  sun  shone 
sometimes  and  he  was  almost  his  old  self  again. 

A  little  story  told  his  biographer  by  his  mother,  while 
the  silent  tears  coursed  down  her  cheeks,  will  serve  to 
show  how  his  hard  lot  was  softened  in  at  least  one  in- 
stance. 

"  I  was  sitting  one  morning,"  said  Mrs.  Dunbar,  "  on 
our  front  steps,  when  I  saw  a  lady  and  a  little  boy  ap- 
proaching. Something  told  me  that  they  were  coming 
to  our  house.  The  boy  carried  a  book,  and  when  they 
came  nearer  I  recognized  it  as  one  of  my  son's.  Sure 
enough,  they  turned  in  at  our  steps  and  the  lady  said  : 

"  '  Is  Mr.  Dunbar  living  here?1 

"  I  replied,  '  Yes.' 

"  *  Could  we  get  to  see  him  ? f 

"  I  asked  them  to  come  in,  and  I  went  to  my  son's 
room  and  summoned  him.  Paul  was  ill  that  morning, 
but  he  went  down-stairs  when  he  heard  that  a  little  boy 
wanted  to  see  him.  My  son  was  very  fond  of  children 
you  know. 

"  The  lady  introduced  herself  to  my  son  as  Mrs.  Ada 
Barton  Bogg  and  her  son,  Master  Harry  Barton  Bogg. 
The  boy  told  Paul  that  he  had  come  to  ask  him  to  auto- 
graph the  book  of  poems  he  had  just  bought.  Of  course 
Paul  did  it,  and  he  and  the  boy  held  a  very  lively  con- 
versation. As  they  were  leaving  we  overheard  Harry 
say  to  his  mother : 

"  *  Why,  mamma,  he  wasn't  a  bit  like  I  thought  he 
would  be.  I  thought  he  would  just  sit  up  straight  like 
he  had  a  stick  down  his  back,  and  never  laugh  at  all.' 


98  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

"  Possibly  an  hour  later,  our  door  bell  rang,  and  a  box 
of  flowers  was  handed  in.  The  box  was  addressed  to  my 
son  and  contained  a  great  bunch  of  gorgeous  peonies 
with  '  the  boy's  '  card.  My  son  was  so  delighted  that  he 
put  on  his  hat  and  went  down  town  for  a  vase  to  put  the 
flowers  in,  and  wrote  the  child  a  letter  beside." 

Out  of  this  incident  a  correspondence  sprang  between 
the  poet  and  the  child,  and  a  friendship  was  begun  which 
lasted  as  long  as  Mr.  Dunbar  lived.  So  proud  was  the 
boy's  mother  of  these  letters  that  at  the  time  of  the  poet's 
death,  she  reproduced  several  of  them  in  Quill,  the  or- 
gan of  the  Illinois  Woman's  Press  Association,  of  which 
she  is  president.  They  give  one  such  a  delightful  glimpse 
into  the  child-heart  of  Paul  Laurence  Dunbar  that  with 
Mrs.  Hogg's  permission  we  have  copied  verbatim  into 
this  biography,  the  article,  quoting  from  them. 

PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 

In  the  passing  of  Paul  Laurence  Dunbar  we  have  lost 
a  friend  who  was  dear  to  us  because  the  friendship  came 
through  his  love  of  "  the  boy,"  and  because,  too,  of  his 
own  sweet  personality.  We  shall  always  have  with  us 
the  memory  of  his  gentle  presence,  his  courteous  man- 
ner, his  soft,  musical  voice,  and  as  we  turn  the  pages  of  a 
correspondence  mostly  to  "  the  boy  "  our  eyes  are  dimmed 
as  we  read.  Here  is  one  written  during  his  last  con- 
valescence from  pneumonia,  while  here  in  Chicago :  "  My 
Dear  little  Friend  :  My  peonies  came  with  your  card  and 
I  have  sworn  eternal  friendship  for  you.  My  passion  is 
for  flowers — and  you,  what  have  you  done  to  me  ?  Sent 
me  off  spending  my  hard-earned  dollars  to  get  an  antique 
vase  to  put  them  in.  Thank  you,  my  dear  boy." 


HON.    FREDERICK  DOUGLASS 

Who  gave  Paul  Dunbar  a  position  in  the  Hayti  building 
at  the  World's  Columbian  Exposition,  paying  him  out 
of  his  own  pocket,  and  who  spoke  of  Dunbar  as  the 
"most  promising  young  colored  man  in  America." 


MASTER  HARRY  BARTON  BOGG,  JR. 

(Mr.  Dunbar's  favorite  boy  friend,   with  whom   he  corresponded 
to  the  day  of  his  death.) 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  101 

After  he  went  to  his  home,  in  Dayton,  he  often  wrote 
f<  the  boy,"  always  cheerfully.  In  one  letter  he  says  : 
"  My  Dear  Boy  :  It  was  a  little  earlier  than  this  last  year 
when  you  came  and  brought  sunshine  into  my  sick  room, 
and  I  want  to  celebrate  that  day.  From  Ohio  to  Illinois 
let  us  say  *  good  luck,'  and  I  want  to  hope  that  your 
cheeks  are  glowing  to-day  as  brightly  as  the  flowers  you 
brought." 

Again  he  writes : 

My  Dear  Boy  :  I  call  you  "  dear  boy  "  because  I  love 
the  name.  This  will  be  a  great  secret  between  us.  ... 
I  wrote  yesterday  to  your  mother,  but,  of  course,  you  un- 
derstand that  it  is  awfully  different  writing  to  grown-ups, 
and  that  they  never  see  through  the  things  that  we  see 
through — their  vision  has  gone  beyond  the  sight  of  our 
dearer  youth.  ...  I  thank  you  exceedingly  for  your 
picture,  which  has  cheered  me  unspeakably,  and  which  I 
keep  over  on  my  dresser,  where  I  can  see  it  now  and  then 
among  the  medicine  bottles.  Lovingly,  your  boy  friend. 

It  was  not  long  after  this  that  Mr.  Dunbar  grew  too 
weak  to  write,  and  the  last  letters  were  dictated.  In  one 
he  speaks  of  "  the  boy's  "  strength  and  vigor,  adding : 
"  He  looks,  oh,  so  healthy  !  I  wish  I  were  half  so  well. 
My  love  to  him  and  tell  him  that  I  should  love  to  run  my 
ringers  through  those  curls  on  his  head." 

In  one  of  his  last  letters  he  says  :  "  The  winter  has 
kept  me  continuously  in  bed — one  may  as  well  be  in 
Patagonia  as  here. 

"  To-day  I  struggled  out  and  got  a  glimpse  of  the  sun. 
I  see  only  the  four  walls  of  my  room,  and  I  welcome 
any  change — am  thankful  for  the  rain  on  the  window 
pane." 


102  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

At  the  last  a  mutual  friend  in  Dayton  carried  some 
blossoms  to  Mr.  Dunbar  for  us,  and  afterwards  wrote  us  : 
"  Mrs.  Dunbar  (his  mother)  met  me  at  the  door  and  in- 
sisted on  my  seeing  him.  When  he  was  told  I  brought 
him  flowers,  he  said  at  once  :  '  They  can't  be  from  the 
boy,  can  they  ?  '  I  told  him  he  had  guessed  right,  and  I 
cannot  express  to  you  his  pleasure.  I  left  him  a  very 
weak  but  happy  man." 

On  the  fly  leaf  of  one  of  his  books  he  wrote  for  us : 

An  angel  robed  in  spotless  white 
Bent  down  and  kissed  the  sleeping  night ; 
Night  woke  to  blush,  the  sprite  was  gone  — 
Men  saw  the  blush  and  called  it  Dawn. 

—A.  B.  B. 


LAST  DAYS  OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 

(Being  a  Series  of  Personal  Reminiscences  of  the  Poet) 

One  summer  day  in  1904,  I  was  invited  by  the  talented 
reader,  Miss  Anna  Loy  May,  to  accompany  her  to  the 
home  of  Paul  Laurence  Dunbar,  where  she  made  frequent 
pilgrimages  to  recite  for  him  the  poems  and  sketches  he 
loved  to  hear.  Together  we  traversed  the  pretty  street, 
which  leads  to  the  Dunbar  home.  The  house  is  a  com- 
modious brick  structure,  shaded  by  magnificent  elms,  and 
on  the  lawn,  at  a  point  where  the  sick  man's  eyes  could 
rest  upon  it,  when  he  sat  by  a  southern  window,  was  a 
luxuriant  bed  of  pansies. 

As  we  stepped  upon  the  piazza,  Mr.  Dunbar's  collie 
dog  inaugurated  a  rather  too-friendly  greeting,  and  in 
another  moment,  the  door  was  opened  by  the  poet  him- 
self, who  immediately  apologized  for  his  dog  by  saying: 

"  My  dog  never  barks  at  any  one  but  poets :  he  is 
jealous  for  his  master's  reputation  1"  He  asked  me  sev- 
eral jocular  questions,  and  then,  looking  at  me  in  a  quiz- 
zical sort  of  way,  exclaimed  : 

"Did  you  expect  to  find  me  a  long-faced,  sancti- 
monious individual  of  whom  you  would  be  afraid  ?  " 

"Y-es,  Mr.  Dunbar,  I  will  confess  it — I  had  formed 
some  such  opinion/ ' 

"  And  now  you  are  disappointed,  aren't  you  ? "  he 
asked  laughing  more  like  a  mischievous  schoolboy  than 
a  world-famous  man  and  an  invalid. 

"  A  trifle,"  I  replied,  "  but  very  delightfully  so." 

This  pleased  him  greatly,  and  we  began  to  talk  of  com- 

103 


104  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

mon  acquaintances  in  both  races,  of  art  and  literature  and 
kindred  themes.  The  "  surprise  "  I  sustained  in  finding 
Mr.  Dunbar  such  a  cheerful  and  optimistic  person  con- 
tinued during  our  entire  call. 

A  characteristic  that  appealed  particularly  to  me  was 
his  impulsive  way  of  showing  delight  when  I  chanced  to 
mention  the  name  of  some  one  who  proved  to  be  a  com- 
mon friend. 

After  we  had  conversed  for  possibly  an  hour  Mr.  Dun- 
bar  reminded  Miss  May  that  she  had  not  yet  "  read"  for 
him.  As  her  cultured  voice  gave  utterance  to  the  lines  of 
several  of  his  favorite  selections  it  was  interesting  to  study 
the  changing  expressions  upon  the  poet's  face.  At  one 
point  he  laughed  almost  boisterously,  at  another  he  was 
moved  to  tears.  In  every  line  of  his  fine  face  one  could 
see  the  evidences  of  culture  and  the  shining  of  the  poetic 
mind. 

His  eyes  were  especially  expressive,  and  were  truly 
"  windows  of  the  soul."  Mr.  Dunbar's  wit  was  so  spon- 
taneous, and  so  much  a  part  of  him  that  one  could  not  be 
long  in  his  society  without  observing  the  glint  of  a  golden 
mirth  in  his  glance  or  conversation.  After  Miss  May  had 
finished  reading  that  afternoon,  the  poet  left  the  room  for 
a  few  moments.  When  he  came  back  a  half-grown  black 
chicken  perched  contentedly  upon  his  shoulder.  He 
made  no  remark,  but  sitting  down  quietly,  began  talking 
again.  My  knowledge  of  the  chicken  as  a  domestic  pet 
was  limited,  and  my  amazement  at  the  evident  fearless- 
ness of  this  specimen  caused  me  to  exclaim  : 

"  Why,  Mr.  Dunbar,  is  that  a  chicken  ?  " 

"  No,  madame,  it  is  a  pig,"  replied  the  poet  with  never 
the  ghost  of  a  smile. 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  105 

Our  laughter  at  this  rejoinder  brought  to  the  door 
Paul  Dunbar' s  mother  who  feared  the  unusual  excitement 
might  bring  on  one  of  the  distressing  attacks  of  coughing 
which  so  wracked  and  weakened  his  delicate  frame. 

Paul  Dunbar' s  mother !  How  shall  I  describe  her  ? 
There  is  such  a  world  to  say  about  that  "  little  black 
mammy"  whom  he  so  dearly  loved  1  But  the  story  of 
Paul  Dunbar's  last  days,  or  any  of  his  days,  would  have 
been  impossible  without  frequent  mention  of  his  devoted 
mother.  No  "good  angel"  in  human  guise  evermore 
faithfully  fulfilled  a  heavenly  mission  than  did  she  through 
all  the  weary  years  of  her  son's  long  illness. 

Framed  by  the  oaken  panels  of  the  doorway,  Matilda 
Dunbar  presented  a  wholesome  and  attractive  picture. 
She  is  small  of  stature,  with  the  same  beautiful  eyes  which 
were  so  noticeable  in  her  son's  face,  the  same  bright  smile 
and  cordial  way,  and  a  gentility  of  manner  and  modula- 
tion of  voice  which  show  what  possibilities  there  are  for 
the  negro  woman  if  she  will  but  take  advantage  of  them. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  looks  of  love  upon  his  face  and 
of  pride  upon  hers  as  he  introduced  "  my  mother."  Then 
in  a  tender  and  gentle  tone  she  said  : 

"  Paul,  dear,  I  fear  you  are  over-doing.  Aren't  you 
talking  too  much  ?  " 

"No,  no,  ma,  I'm  having  a  most  delightful  time,"  he 
replied  and  bade  her  take  a  seat  near  him. 

A  young  colored  man  called  to  take  the  poet  to  drive. 
His  embarrassment  was  apparent  when  he  found  Mr. 
Dunbar  entertaining  two  "  white  "  women  friends,  but 
Dunbar  greeted  him  most 'affectionately,  and  presented 
him  to  us  as  his  "  talented  friend  Mr.  H.,  who  writes  beau- 
tiful verses."  What  a  graceful  and  generous  thing  it  was 


106  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

for  the  greatest  poet  of  his  race  to  thus  bring  to  our 
knowledge  immediately  the  fact  that  the  new  arrival 
possessed  a  talent  for  making  verse.  Too  ill  to  go  driv- 
ing, he  was  compelled  to  decline  his  friend's  hospitality, 
but  his  beautiful  words  of  gratitude  sent  the  young  man 
away  with  a  beaming  face  and  a  happy  heart.  It  never 
seemed  to  matter  to  Paul  Dunbar  whether  a  man  was 
rich  or  poor,  black  or  white  or  yellow,  if  he  offered  him  a 
kindness  or  expressed  a  good  wish,  the  poet  took  pains 
to  show  his  appreciation  in  as  public  a  way  as  he  could. 
He  was  almost  wholly  free  from  the  blight  of  ingratitude. 
Mr.  Dunbar  would  have  had  us  remain  indefinitely,  but 
knowing  that  we  had  already  drawn  over-deep  upon  his 
slender  store  of  vitality,  we  literally  "  tore  ourselves 
away  "  promising  a  speedy  return. 

A  CHINESE  TEA  PARTY 

Our  second  visit  to  Paul  Laurence  Dunbar  was  on  a 
gray  day  in  October.  There  was  a  chill  in  the  air,  and  a 
drizzle  from  the  clouds.  A  cold  wind,  like  an  advance 
agent  for  winter,  was  feeling  the  pulse  of  the  people  as 
though  to  discern  how  they  felt  to  wards  the  coming  show. 
If  the  world  could  have  been  judged  that  day,  by  our 
wishes,  winter  would  have  felt  far  from  complimented. 
Knowing  the  tendency  of  the  artistic  temperament  to  be 
depressed  when  the  sun  is  not  shining,  I  expected  to  find 
the  sick  man  indulging  in  an  attack  of  the  blues.  On  the 
contrary,  as  soon  as  he  entered  the  room,  we  felt  that  it 
was  flooded  with  sunshine.  He  was  simply  bubbling 
over  with  good  cheer  and  fun,  and  we  were  soon  ob- 
livious to  the  weather. 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  107 

"  Now,  ladies,  we  are  going  to  have  a  Chinese  tea  party 
this  afternoon,  and  I  am  to  be  chef,"  said  our  host. 

We  expressed  our  delight  and  told  him  how  compli- 
mented we  felt  to  have  a  famous  man  for  a  "  chef,"  but 
he  laughed  heartily  at  this,  and  asked  us  to  follow  him 
up-stairs  to  "  Loafingholt."  This  is  the  name  he  gave  his 
den  or  library,  and  it  was  well  chosen,  for  there  was  every 
inducement  to  laziness  and  rest.  The  entire  house  was 
artistic  in  its  appointments,  and  reflected  everywhere  the 
spirit  of  its  master,  but  this  room — his  own  particular 
sanctum  sanctorum  was  the  most  charmingly  characteris- 
tic apartment  of  them  all.  The  walls  were  lined  with 
book-shelves,  above  which  were  hung  illuminated  mottoes 
from  the  works  of  Riley,  Stevenson  and  others  of  his 
favorites.  A  framed  certificate  gave  evidence  of  the  fact 
that  Mr.  Dunbar  was  a  member  of  the  famous  Pen  and 
Pencil  Club  of  Wasnington,  with  an  office  in  that  organi- 
zation. Another  frame  held  an  autograph  copy  of  "  My 
Country  'tis  of  Thee."  On  the  top  shelf  of  each  book 
case  were  photographs  of  eminent  men  and  women  of 
both  races,  among  them  Black  Patti,  who  called  on  Mr. 
Dunbar  when  giving  a  concert  in  Dayton,  and  presented 
him  with  her  portrait.  The  pictures  were  almost  all  auto- 
graphed. Dainty  bits  of  bric-&-brac  showed  the  poet  to 
be  a  connoisseur  in  other  fields  than  that  of  literature. 
The  books  were  almost  all  presented  to  him  by  the 
authors.  An  arts-and-crafts  bookcase  contained  copies 
of  his  own  productions,  and  the  collection  was  not  one  of 
which  he  needed  to  be  ashamed. 

His  desk  showed  that  he  had  been  at  work,  recently, 
and  there  were  bits  of  unfinished  poems  strewn  upon  it. 

A  couch  piled  high  with  gay  sofa  pillows,  afforded  a 


io8  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

cozy  place  for  the  poet  to  rest  when  tired  of  writing  or  of 
guests,  and  an  Indian  blanket  rug  in  bright  crimson  gave 
the  dignified  room  its  needed  bit  of  vivacious  coloring. 
There  were  sleepy-hollow  chairs  and  other  "  loafing " 
places  in  the  room,  and  altogether  it  was  very  appropri- 
ately named. 

In  a  corner  near  the  door,  was  a  handsome  tabourette 
upon  which  was  disposed  the  tea  service.  Such  a  pretty 
service  it  was  with  its  foreign-looking  sugar  bowl  and 
cream  pitcher  and  its  squatty  little  tea-pot,  with  the  Jap- 
anese cups  so  delicate  and  thin  that  one  could  almost 
"  see  through  them." 

While  we  admired  his  books  and  his  pictures  or  en- 
gaged in  merry  conversation,  Mr.  Dunbar  made  the  tea 
over  his  alcohol  lamp — and  presently  approached  me  with 
a  cup  of  the  fragrant  brew. 

"  This  is  genuine  Chinese  tea,  ladies,"  he  remarked. 
"  It  was  brought  to  me  by  a  friend  direct  from  the  Celes- 
tial Kingdom." 

He  then  offered  us  sugar  and  cream.  I  added  sugar  to 
my  tea,  and  immediately  regretted  it,  for  he  said  in  mock 
horror : 

"  There,  now  !  you've  spoiled  it — the  idea  of  Chinese  tea 
with  sugar  in  it." 

I  acknowledged  my  ignorance,  and  asked  him  why  he 
offered  me  sugar  for  "  Chinese  tea." 

"  Just  to  see  if  you  knew,"  laughed  Mr.  Dunbar  with  a 
wickedly  mischievous  smile. 

Over  the  tea-cups  there  was  interesting  talk,  interesting 
because  one  could  not  converse  many  moments  with  Paul 
Laurence  Dunbar  without  hearing  something  entertaining 
or  profitable.  He  liked  to  say  things  to  make  one 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  109 

"  think,"  as  he  once  expressed  it,  and  he  usually  suc- 
ceeded. He  seemed  to  be  alive  to  all  the  vital  problems 
of  the  age,  and  to  have  decided  opinions  upon  each  and 
every  one.  He  was  exceedingly  witty  and  often  said 
brilliantly  funny  things  at  most  unexpected  moments. 

He  was  greatly  gratified  to  learn  that  I  had  committed 
several  of  his  language  poems  to  memory  and  that  I  pre- 
ferred these  to  his  dialect  verses.  The  fact  that  the  world 
at  large,  passing  over  his  great  productions  in  classic 
English,  blindly  "  turned  to  praise  a  jingle  in  a  broken 
tongue,"  was  one  of  the  real  griefs  that  sapped  his  life  and 
energy.  "  I  am  tired,  so  tired  of  dialect,"  he  said.  "  I 
send  out  graceful  little  poems,  suited  for  any  of  the  maga- 
zines, but  they  are  returned  to  me  by  editors  who  say, 
'We  would  be  very  glad  to  have  a  dialect  poem,  Mr. 
Dunbar,  but  we  do  not  care  for  the  language  composi- 
tions.' I  have  about  decided  to  write  under  a  nom  de 
plume,  and  I  have  chosen  a  beautiful  name."  We  asked 
him  to  satisfy  feminine  curiosity  by  telling  us  the  name, 
but  he  refused  to  do  so,  saying  he  was  determined  to 
"fool  the  editors."  He  then  told  us  laughingly  of  a 
"  bright  young  lady "  who  wrote  to  him  criticising  him 
for  using  various  kinds  of  negro  dialect  in  one  volume. 
"  Just  think  of  it !  a  literary  critic  and  yet  doesn't  know 
that  there  are  as  many  variations  of  the  negro  dialect  as 
there  are  states  in  the  Union  !  For  instance  an  Alabama 
negro  does  not  speak  any  more  like  a  Virginia  colored 
man  than  a  Yankee  talks  like  a  man  from  Colorado." 
Thus  again  and  again  he  proved  how  thoroughly  he  had 
studied  his  race,  north  and  south,  east  and  west,  and  how 
well  equipped  he  was  when  he  went  to  his  task  of  writing 
dialect  poems.  He  gave  the  world  the  first  idealized 


i  io  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

negro  verse,  and  he  gave  the  white  race  and  all  races  to 
know  that  there  is  more  real  sentiment  and  artistic  feeling 
in  the  negro  brain  than  was  ever  dreamed  of  in  the 
philosophy  of  the  average  Caucasian  Horatio.  He  re- 
marked early  in  life  that  he  hoped  to  prove  that  his  race 
was  human  as  well  as  African,  and  he  did  much  more — he 
proved  that  they  were  artistic  as  well  as  humbly  useful. 

After  we  had  finished  our  tea,  Mr.  Dunbar  was  disposed 
to  continue  our  talk  indefinitely,  but  his  strength  was 
scarcely  sufficient  for  such  a  long  strain,  and  soon  his 
mother  called  one  of  us  outside  for  a  moment  and  said  : 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  ladies,  but  I  expect  you  had  better 
leave  my  son  now  as  he  may  have  a  severe  attack  of 
coughing.  Don't  tell  him  I  told  you,  for  he  will  fear  that 
it  may  offend  you." 

We  soon  therefore  begged  another  engagement,  and 
left  him,  though  he  urged  us  to  stay.  Our  conduct  after 
we  left  him  was  not  consistent  with  our  protestations  that 
we  could  not  stay  another  moment,  for  we  lingered  below 
stairs  to  talk  with  his  mother.  We  were  startled  to  hear 
Mr.  Dunbar  call : 

"  Miss  May,  oh,  Miss  May,  come  to  the  stairs  a  moment." 
She  obeyed,  and  in  a  stage  whisper  he  said  :  "  You  ladies 
had  better  not  talk  to  mother,  she  may  get  to  coughing." 
He  had  evidently  overheard  her  warning  to  us,  and  was 
retaliating. 

Thus  his  love  of  fun  and  his  inexhaustible  wit,  served 
to  send  us  away  with  a  smile  and  a  hope  that  perhaps 
after  all  his  life  would  be  spared  for  many  years  to  come. 
It  was  always  difficult,  when  talking  with  him,  to  realize 
that  his  days  were  numbered  and  that  the  seal  of  Death 
was  set  upon  him. 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  in 

AN  IMPROMPTU  MUSICALE 

Among  the  things  that  were  dear  to  the  heart  of  Paul 
Laurence  Dunbar  was  music — vocal  or  instrumental — he 
loved  it,  and  he  was,  in  his  prime,  no  mean  performer  on 
the  violin. 

One  afternoon  I  went  to  see  him  on  a  matter  of  business, 
but  ere  I  had  been  there  long,  he  told  me  that  I  was  "  in 
luck,"  for  there  was  to  be  a  musicale  in  half  an  hour. 
Soon  his  guests  began  to  arrive.  Among  them  were 
prominent  persons  of  both  races.  Mr.  Dunbar  sat  on  a 
couch  smilling  and  chatting  with  every  one, — the  gayest 
of  the  throng.  One  of  the  colored  women  began  the 
program  by  singing  several  of  Mr.  Dunbar's  favorite 
songs.  One  of  these  was  "  Lead  Kindly  Light."  This 
was  a  great  favorite  of  the  poet's,  and  he  once  wrote  a 
companion-piece  to  it  which  by  many  is  thought  to  be  as 
beautiful  as  the  original  poem.  His  poem  is  called  a 
Hymn,  and  is  really  his  own  prayer  to  God  for  help  in 
his  illness.  The  last  stanza  is  especially  beautiful : 

"  Lead  gently,  Lord,  and  slow, 

For  fear  that  I  may  fall : 
I  know  not  where  to  go 

Unless  I  hear  thy  call. 
My  fainting  soul  doth  yearn 

For  thy  green  hills  afar  — 
So  let  thy  mercy  burn  — 

My  greater,  guiding  star  !  " 

The  young  woman  who  sang  for  us  that  afternoon  was 
wholly  African,  and  her  voice  was  typical  of  the  race. 
Well  may  the  negro  be  proud  of  his  musical  ability. 
Seldom  indeed  have  I  heard  a  soloist  of  any  race  whose 
tones  could  equal  those  that  delighted  us  that  day.  The 


H2  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

poet's  very  soul  came  into  his  expressive  eyes  as  he  lis- 
tened. No  applause  was  more  earnest  and  no  encore 
more  sincere  than  his,  as  he  asked  for  more  and  more. 

After  the  music  a  young  woman  of  the  party  read  sev- 
eral of  her  poems  at  Mr.  Dunbar's  request.  His  praise 
was  very  delicate  and  intelligent,  and  showed  the  poet's 
desire  to  accentuate  the  gifts  of  others. 

After  the  program  Mr.  Dunbar  fell  to  talking  of  Theo- 
dore Roosevelt,  of  whom  he  spoke  as  one  of  his  dearest 
friends.  He  asked  his  mother  to  bring  him  his  "  Christ- 
mas present,  and  when  Mrs.  Dunbar  returned  she  brought 
with  her  two  volumes,  and  Mr.  Dunbar  handed  them 
around  saying,  "  See !  I'm  all  '  puffed  up'  over  these." 
The  books  were  two  of  the  works  of  the  President,  in- 
scribed as  follows : 

"  To  Paul  Laurence  Dunbar  from  Theodore  Roosevelt, 
Christmas,  1903." 

He  then  told  of  the  poem  he  had  sent  Mr.  Roosevelt  at 
the  time  of  his  second  campaign,  and  of  the  President's 
complimentary  letter  concerning  it.  All  were  enthusiastic 
and  wanted  to  hear  the  poem.  So,  after  much  persuasion, 
Mr.  Dunbar  read  for  us  the  lines : 

"  There's  a  mighty  sound  a  comin', 
From  the  East  and  there's  a  hummin* 

And  a  bummin'  from  the  bosom  of  the  West, 
While  the  North  has  given  tongue, 
And  the  South  will  be  among 

Those  who  holler  that  our  Roosevelt  is  best. 

•'  We  have  heard  of  him  in  battle 
And  amid  the  roar  and  rattle 

When  the  foemen  fled  like  cattle  to  their  stalls : 
We  have  seen  him  staunch  and  grim 
When  the  only  battle  hymn 

Was  the  shrieking  of  the  Spanish  Mauser  balls. 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  113 

"  Product  of  a  worthy  sireing. 
Fearless,  honest,  brave,  untiring  — 

In  the  forefront  of  the  firing,  there  he  stands : 
And  we're  not  afraid  to  show 
That  we  all  revere  him  so, 

To  dissentients  of  our  own  and  other  lands. 

"  Now,  the  fight  is  on  in  earnest, 
And  we  care  not  if  the  sternest 

Of  encounters  try  our  valor  or  the  quality  of  him, 
For  they're  few  who  stoop  to  fear 
As  the  glorious  day  draws  near, 

For  you'll  find  him  hell  to  handle  when  he  gets  in  fightin'  trim." 

Ill  as  he  then  was  and  weakened  by  the  ravages  of  the 
disease  that  was  killing  him,  one's  imagination  could 
readily  picture  what  he  must  have  been  in  his  prime. 
His  eyes  flashed,  and  there  was  a  sparkle  in  them  that 
told  how  much  he  enjoyed  giving  a  proper  interpretation 
to  his  own  poems. 

Before  I  left  him  that  afternoon,  he  took  occasion  to 
tell  me  that  he  was  to  have  his  "  class  "  that  night,  and 
that  he  must  rest  a  bit  before  the  pupils  came.  I  asked 
in  amazement  what  class  he  meant,  and  he  said,  with  an 
enthusiasm  which  left  no  doubt  as  to  his  heart-interest  in 
the  work : 

"  Why  my  class  in  spelling  and  reading.  Some  people 
think  our  people  should  be  nurses  and  boot-blacks,  but  I 
am  determined  that  they  shall  not  make  menials  out  of 
all  of  us."  This  class  he  taught  for  weeks,  giving  liter- 
ally of  his  very  life  for  the  betterment  of  his  race. 


AN  " INTERVIEW" 
The  fourth  time  I  went  to  the  Dunbar  home,  I  had  a 


H4  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

commission  from  a  magazine  to  interview  him.  As  the 
lower  rooms  were  filled  with  callers,  he  took  me  up  to 
"  Loafingholt."  He  bade  me  take  an  easy  chair,  assur- 
ing me  that  my  "  job  "  would  be  very  difficult,  and  then 
sat  down  opposite  with  the  air  of  a  martyr  about  to  be 
tied  to  the  stake.  This  was  somewhat  disconcerting,  and 
I  must  have  looked  my  embarrassment  for  he  soon  began 
talking  naturally  of  his  health  and  the  pretty  view  from 
his  window,  etc.,  until  I  was  quite  at  my  ease  and  able  to 
"  ask  questions." 

Presently  I  said,  "  Mr.  Dunbar,  tell  me  what  is  your 
real  reason  for  writing?  Do  you  write  for  fame,  for 
money  or  just  for  the  pleasure  of  creating  art  ?  " 

"  I  ?  why  do  I  write  ?  ".he  asked  as  though  surprised  at 
the  query  .  "  Why,  I  write  just  because  I  love  it." 

Knowing  that  the  majority  of  his  race  are  noted  for 
their  superstitions,  and  having  a  curiosity  to  learn  whether 
education  and  refinement  would  eradicate  the  racial  trait, 
I  asked  him  a  leading  question. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,"  he  ejaculated,  with  a  far  away 
look  in  his  eyes.  "  Some  people  would  laugh,  I  suppose, 
but  things  really  do  '  happen '  sometimes  which  are  strange 
to  say  the  least." 

"  Yes  ?  "  I  encouraged. 

"  Well,  once  when  I  was  a  small  boy,  just  at  the  age 
when  I  thought  I  knew  more  than  my  mother — a  queer 
thing  occurred.  The  flowers  in  our  front  yard  all  came 
out  in  bloom  in  the  dead  of  winter.  Our  neighbors' 
plants  did  not  bloom  and " 

"  Did  anything  come  of  it  ?  "  I  found  myself  breath- 
lessly asking. 

"  Wait  a  moment,"  he  said,  "  something  else  happened 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  115 

too — a  pair  of  horses  hitched  to  a  hearse  ran  off  and 
stopped  before  our  gate." 

"  Were  you  frightened  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Not  I — I  was  too  *  wise '  you  know,  but  my  mother 
was  terribly  worried.  We  had  an  old  gentleman  with  us 
then,  and,  if  you  will  believe  me — he  took  ill  and  died  in 
two  weeks.  Even  since  then  I  have  believed  in  the 
truth  of  the  old  nursery  rhyme  — 

"  *  Flowers  out  of  season, 
Trouble  without  reason  !  '  " 

He  recounted  other  instances  which  had  come  under 
his  observation  of  the  couplet's  having  "  come  true," 
speaking  in  a  saddened  tone  of  his  having  found  a  violet 
blossoming  under  his  library  window  on  All  Saints'  Day. 
This  incident  inspired  three  of  his  best  known  poems. 
The  first  he  called  "  To  a  Violet  Found  on  All-Saints' 
Day."  The  others  are  " Weltschmertz,"  and  "The 
Monk's  Walk,"  published  in  "  Lyrics  of  Love  and 
Laughter."  "  That  was  indeed  a  flower  '  blooming  out 
of  season,'  and  I  never  had  much  real  happiness  after 
that,"  he  said.  I  knew  that  he  was  thinking  of  his  un- 
happy married  life  for  the  incident  occurred  in  Wash- 
ington. 

Since  then  I  have  had  more  respect  for  so-called 
"  superstitions "  and  if  the  wholly  practical  must  call 
these  things  mere  coincidences,  to  some  of  us  they  can 
but  seem  a  trifle  more. 

Mr.  Dunbar  patiently  answered  my  other  questions, 
and  I  left  him,  feeling  how  kind  he  was  and  how  consid- 
erate, how  lavish  of  his  needed  strength,  and  how  gener- 
ous of  himself. 


Ii6  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

POEMS  "WHILE  You  WAIT" 

Doubtless  there  are  hundreds  of  instances,  memory- 
cherished  by  his  friends,  of  Mr.  Dunbar's  having  pro- 
duced impromptu  verses  of  remarkable  cleverness  and 
beauty.  One  or  two  of  these  I  will  recount,  merely  as 
examples  of  his  ability  to  work  under  high  pressure — a 
gift  as  rare  as  it  is  unusual. 

Having  business  in  Dayton,  I  had  not  intended  going 
out  to  see  Mr.  Dunbar,  but  as  was  my  custom,  I  called 
him  by  telephone.  As  soon  as  he  recognized  my  voice, 
he  said : 

"  I  am  feeling  fine  to-day,  and  you  must  come  out  be- 
fore leaving  town.  I  shall  have  something  for  you  when 
you  get  here  1 " 

He  did  not  give  me  the  slightest  hint  as  to  what  the 
"  something  "  would  be,  but  I  went  out  to  see  him. 

When  I  reached  the  house  his  mother  admitted  me, 
and  Mr.  Dunbar  called  from  the  parlor,  where  he  sat 
curled  up  on  a  couch,  for  all  the  world  like  a  small  boy. 

"  Just  wait  a  moment,  I'm  hunting  for  a  rhyme." 

Mrs.  Dunbar  and  I  had  conversed  but  a  few  minutes 
when  we  heard  him  say  exultantly : 

"  Ah,  that's  it — good  ! "  and  the  next  instant  he  was 
with  us,  smiling  and  bowing  to  me,  and  holding  towards 
me  a  scrap  of  paper  on  which  he  had  written  in  his  own 
delicate  hand  (a  feat  by  no  means  common  on  those  lat- 
ter days)  the  following : 

To  A  POET  AND  A  LADY 

You  sing,  and  the  gift  of  a  State's  applause 

Is  yours  for  the  rune  that  is  ringing, 
But  tell  me  truly  is  that  the  cause  ? 

Don't  you  sing  for  the  love  of  singing  ? 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  117 

You  think  you  are  working  for  wealth  and  for  fame, 

But  ah,  you  are  not  and  you  know  it, 
For  Wife  is  the  sweetest  and  loveliest  name, 

And  every  good  wife  is  a  poet ! 

These  lines,  written  to  please  me,  and  not  meant  for  a 
public  reading,  nevertheless  contain,  as  did  everything  he 
wrote,  a  grain  of  helpful  truth,  and  a  delicate  suggestion 
of  the  poet's  love  for  the  home  and  its  mistress.  He  did 
not  prostitute  his  talent,  but  even  when  the  occasion  was 
of  a  trivial  character,  he  conscientiously  gave  his  story  a 
new  dignity  in  the  telling. 

Mr.  Dunbar  was  ever  grateful  for  kindnesses  shown 
him  and  took  occasion  to  remark  that  day  : 

"  My  stenographer  is  not  here  to-day,  or  she  would  type 
the  verses  for  you." 

"  Why,  have  you  a  secretary  Mr.  Dunbar  ?  " 

"  Yes,  the  loveliest  young  woman  in  the  world  comes 
almost  every  day  and  does  my  writing  for  me,  and  she 
does  it  gratis — will  not  think  of  accepting  compensation." 
His  face  fairly  beamed  as  he  said  it,  and  one  could  not 
help  seeing  how  he  appreciated  this  service  from  a  young 
woman  of  his  sister  race.  Could  he  but  have  heard  what 
she  said  to  me  after  he  died,  he  would  have  understood 
why  she  came  day  after  day  to  write  for  him — "  I  never 
knew  the  beauty  and  breadth  of  life  until  I  knew  Paul 
Laurence  Dunbar,"  said  the  young  woman  with  moist 
eyes,  "  and  I  can  never  tell  you  what  those  days  spent  in 
his  society  meant  to  me."  She  then  told  me  of  his  hav- 
ing composed  aloud  his  last  poem — "  Sling  Along  "  while 
she  wrote  it  down  in  shorthand.  It  was  with  great  diffi- 
culty that  he  talked  that  day,  because  of  the  frequent 
spells  of  coughing  that  attacked  him,  but  one  can  see 


n8  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

that  even  then  he  was  possessed  with  a  spirit  of  fun  and 
happy  humor.  The  lines  which  have  not  yet  appeared  in 
print  are  as  follows  : 

SLING  ALONG. 

Sling  along,  sling  along,  sling  along, 

De  moon  done  riz, 

Dem  eyes  o'  his 

Done  sighted  you 

Where  you  stopped  to  woo. 
Sling  along,  sling  along, 

It  ain't  no  use  fu'  to  try  to  hide, 

De  moonbeam  allus  at  yo'  side, 

He  hang  f  'om  de  fence,  he  drap  f ' om  de  limb, 

Dey  ain't  no  use  bein'  skeered  o'  him, 
Sling  along,  sling  along. 

Sling  along,  sling  along,  sling  along, 

De  brook  hit  flow, 

Fu'  to  let  you  know, 

Dat  he  saw  dat  kiss, 

An'  he  know  yo'  bliss. 
Sling  along,  sling  along. 

He  run  by  yo'  side, 

An'  he  say  howdydo, 
"He  ain't  gine  to  tell  but  his  eye  is  on  you, 

You  can  lay  all  yo'  troubles  on  de  highest  shelf 

Fu'  de  little  ol'  brook's  jes  talkin'  to  his  se'f, 
Sling  along,  sling  along. 

Sling  along,  sling  along,  sling  along, 

De'  possum  grin, 

But  he  run  lak  sin, 

He  know  love's  sweet, 

But  he  prize  his  meat, 
Sling  along,  sling  along. 

He  know  you'd  stop  fu'  to  hunt  his  hide, 

If  you  los'  a  kiss  and  a  hug  beside, 

But  de  feas'  will  come  and  de  folks  will  eat, 

When  she  tek  yo'  han'  at  de  altah  sea, 
Sling  along,  sling  along. 


The  Dunbar    house,    at   219    North    Summit    Street,    Dayton,    Ohio,  where 

Mr.  Dunbar's  last  days  were  spent,  and  where  he  died.     His  mother  still 

resides  in  this  house,  which  he  bequeathed  to  her. 


Ir.  Dunbar's  desk  and  his  arts  and  crafts  bookcase,  which  contained  copies  of  his  own 
books,  and  autograph  copies  of  the  works  of  many  of  his  contemporaries. 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  121 

Another  instance  of  his  wonderful  skill  in  writing  from 
inspiration,  is  the  story  of  his  "  Rain  Songs." 

The  day  was  dark  and  the  rain  fell  drearily  outside  his 
window.  Only  a  poet's  mind  could  have  conceived  any- 
thing beautiful  in  such  a  prospect.  A  young  man  friend 
was  with  him.  Suddenly  Mr.  Dunbar,  gazing  intently 
out  at  the  vision  in  the  rain,  said  to  his  companion : 

"  Did  you  ever  think  of  the  rain's  looking  like  harp- 
strings  ?  " 

"  No  " — said  the  young  man,  "  I  cannot  say  that  I 
ever  did." 

"  Well — how  does  this  sound  ?  "  and  the  poet  is  de- 
scribed as  having  repeated  the  words  slowly,  as  though 
saying  them  after  some  one  whose  voice,  audible  to  him, 
could  not  be  heard  by  his  companion  — 

"  The  rain  streams  down  like  harp-strings  from  the  sky, 
The  wind,  that  world-old  harper  sitteth  by, 
And  ever,  as  he  sings  his  low  refrain, 
He  plays  upon  the  harp-strings  of  the  rain." 

DUNBAR'S  LAST  BIRTHDAY 

Feeling  that  the  poet's  days  on  earth  were  swiftly  pass- 
ing by,  and  that  perchance  this  (June  2yth,  1905)  would 
be  (as  it  proved)  his  last  birthday,  a  number  of  his  friends 
in  Dayton,  planned  a  surprise  for  him. 

It  being  a  beautiful  afternoon,  Mr.  Dunbar's  physician 
gave  him  permission  to  go  driving  with  a  friend  who, 
quite  innocently,  of  course,  called  with  a  carriage. 

In  the  poet's  absence  his  friends  took  possession  of  his 
home  and  made  it  ready  for  the  "  party."  His  chair,  at 
the  head  of  the  table,  was  festooned  in  royal  purple,  and 
his  favorite  flowers  were  everywhere  in  evidence.  A 


122  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

great  birthday  cake  and  dainty  viands  made  an  ideal  sup- 
per table. 

Upon  his  return  from  the  drive,  Mr.  Dunbar  came  slowly 
up  the  steps  and  across  the  veranda.  When  he  opened 
the  door,  he  was  met  by  a  perfect  avalanche  of  congratu- 
lations 1  Taken  wholly  unaware,  he  was  for  a  moment 
unable  to  speak,  but,  with  something  of  his  old  spirit,  he 
entered  into  the  affair,  and  was  soon  the  gayest  of  them 
all. 

At  supper  there  were  clever  speeches  and  happy  rep- 
artee. One  of  the  toasts  was  given  by  Dr.  William 
Burns,  Mr.  Dunbar's  dearest  friend  among  his  own  people. 

This  brilliant  young  physician  was  Mr.  Dunbar's  con- 
stant attendant  for  the  last  three  years  of  his  life,  going 
with  him  whenever  he  ventured  from  home  to  recite,  and 
caring  for  him  always  as  tenderly  as  a  brother.  He  was 
a  man  of  sterling  worth  and  beautiful  personality,  and  it 
is  small  wonder  that  the  poet  loved  him  almost  to  idolatry. 
Special  •  mention  is  thus  made  because  in  the  following 
November  the  young  physician  was  struck  down  in  the 
very  height  of  his  professional  successes  and  passed  into 
the  Mystery  four  months  before  his  famous  friend  and 
pptient.  The  passing  of  Dr.  Burns  has  been  thought  by 
many  to  have  hastened  the  end  of  Paul  Laurence  Dunbar, 
and,  ill  as  he  was,  at  the  time  his  physician  died,  he  in- 
sisted on  being  taken  in  a  carriage  to  his  lodgings.  Wit- 
nesses say  that  Mr.  Dunbar  took  the  hand  of  Dr.  Burns, 
and  talked  to  him  just  as  though  he  were  still  there  in 
spirit  as  well  as  flesh.  He  was  driven  back  to  his  home, 
but  always  refused  to  admit  that  "  Bud,"  as  he  called  the 
doctor,  was  dead.  His  mind  weakened  by  disease  and 
sorrow,  could  not  grasp  this  last  dreadful  tragedy. 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  123 

No  gloomy  forebodings,  however,  dimmed  the  happiness 
of  the  birthday  supper,  and  the  picture  presented  by  that 
festal  board  is  one  worthy  the  brush  of  a  master,  because 
it  was  a  revelation  and  a  prophecy.  Sitting  side  by  side 
at  the  poet's  table  were  young  people  of  both  the  black 
and  white  races.  Each  face  was  of  an  exceptionally  fine 
intellectual  mould — each  individual  was  an  artist  in  his 
line.  An  Episcopal  clergyman  of  the  Negro  race, 
touched  elbows  wich  a  beautiful  young  business  woman, 
a  representative  of  Dayton's  "  Four  Hundred  "  met  on  an 
equal  intellectual  footing  the  cultured  young  physician, 
whose  skin  alone  was  black. 

The  sight  must  have  been  gratifying  to  the  mind  of 
Paul  Laurence  D unbar,  for  he  could  but  have  seen  in 
this  happy  mingling  of  intellectual  negroes  and  broad- 
minded  whites  an  omen  for  the  future  of  his  race.  His 
own  personality  had  much  to  do  with  the  matter,  but  if 
the  race  has  produced  one  genius  like  Paul  Dunbar,  it 
can  produce  others,  and  therein  lies  its  hope  of  final 
recognition. 

A  short  time  after  his  birthday  party,  Mr.  Dunbar  was 
visited  by  a  delegation  from  the  Ohio  Federation  of  Colored 
Woman's  Clubs,  meeting  in  Dayton,  and  enjoyed  ex- 
ceedingly making  the  acquaintance  of  women  of  his  own 
race  who  were  interested  in  the  higher  education. 

During  this  convention,  Mrs  Mary  Church  Terrell,  a 
Washington  friend  of  Mr.  D  unbar' s,  and  a  woman 
who  has  gained  an  enviable  reputation  in  the  world  of 
letters  was  a  house-guest  at  the  Dunbar  home.  Writing 
of  this  visit  in  the  April,  1906,  issue  of  the  Voice  of  the 
Negro,  Mrs.  Terrell  pays  so  beautiful  a  tribute  to  Mr. 
Dunbar  that  a  portion  of  it  is  given  herewith.  It  shows 


124  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

that  Mr.  Dunbar  was  appreciated  by  the  more  intellectual 
members  of  his  own  race  as  well  as  by  those  of  the  sister 
races. 

Mrs.  Terrell  says : 

"  During  the  few  days  spent  with  Mr.  Dunbar  last 
summer  I  discovered  there  were  depths  in  his  character 
that  I  had  never  sounded  and  qualities  of  heart  of  which 
I  had  never  dreamed,  although  I  saw  him  frequently 
when  he  lived  in  Washington. 

"  Owen  Meredith  says  that 

"  *  The  heart  of  a  man  is  like  that  delicate  weed 
Which  requires  to  be  trampled  on,  boldly  indeed 
Ere  it  gives  forth  the  fragrance  you  wish  to  extract. 
Tis  a  simile,  trust  me,  if  not  new,  exact.' 

"  Whether  affliction  and  sorrow  always  bring  out  the 
best  there  is  in  a  man,  I  cannot  say.  I  do  know,  however, 
that  the  physical  and  mental  pain  which  Paul  Laurence 
Dunbar  endured  for  a  year  before  he  passed  away,  de- 
veloped the  highest  and  noblest  qualities  hvhim.  When 
I  saw  Paul  Dunbar  last  summer,  he  was  shut  in,  wasted 
and  worn  by  disease,  coughing  his  young  and  precious 
life  away,  yet  full  of  cheer,  when  not  actually  racked  with 
pain,  and  perfectly  resigned  to  fate.  I  shall  always  think 
of  his  patience  under  his  severe  affliction  as  a  veritable 
miracle  of  modern  times.  In  the  flush  of  early  manhood, 
full  of  promise  of  still  greater  literary  achievement  in 
the  future  than  he  had  been  able  to  attain  in  the  past, 
fond  of  life  as  the  young  should  be  and  usually  are,  there 
he  sat,  rapidly  losing  his  physical  strength  every  hour, 
and  yet,  miracle  of  miracles,  no  bitter  complaint  of  his 
cruel  fate  did  I  hear  escape  his  lips  a  single  time.  The 
weakness  and  inertia  of  his  worn^and  wasted  body  con- 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  125 

trasted  sadly  and  strangely  with  the  strength  and  ac- 
tivity of  his  vigorous  mind.  As  I  looked  at  him,  pity  for 
the  afflicted  man  himself  and  pity  for  the  race  to  which 
he  belonged  and  which  I  knew  would  soon  sustain  such 
an  irreparable  loss  in  his  death  almost  overcame  me  more 
than  once.  As  incredible  as  it  may  appear,  his  moods 
were  often  sunny  and  then  it  was  delightful  to  hear  the 
flood  of  merriment  roll  cheerily  from  his  lips.  .  .  . 

"  It  was  gratifying  to  see  the  homage  paid  Mr.  D unbar 
by  some  of  the  most  cultured  and  some  of  the  wealthiest 
people  of  the  dominant  race  in  Dayton.  .  .  . 

"  On  one  occasion  after  some  beautiful  girls  who  had 
called  to  pay  their  respects  to  Mr.  Dunbar,  had  gone,  in 
a  nervous  effort  to  relieve  the  tension  of  my  own  feelings., 
I  turned  to  him  and  said  : 

"  *  Sometimes  I  am  tempted  to  believe  you  are  not  half  so 
ill  as  you  pretend  to  be.  I  believe  you  are  just  playing 
the  role  of  interesting  invalid,  so  as  to  receive  the  sym- 
pathy and  homage  of  these  beautiful  girls/ 

" '  Sometimes  I  think  I  am  just  loafing  myself/  he 
laughingly  replied.  How  well  he  remembered  this  was 
shown  a  short  while  after  I  returned  home.  He  sent  me 
a  copy  of  his  '  Lyrics  of  Sunshine  and  Shadow/  which 
at  that  time  was  his  latest  book.  On  the  fly  leaf  he  had 
written  with  his  own  hand,  a  feat  which  during  the  first 
year  of  his  illness  he  was  often  unable  to  perform,  the 
following  lines : 

"Look  hyeah,  Molly, 

Ain't  it  jolly, 
Jes1  a  loafin'  'oun'  ? 

Tell  the  Jedge 

Not  to  hedge 
For  I  am  still  in  town. 


126  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

"Whether  Paul  Dunbar  will  be  rated  a  great  poet  or 
not,  no  human  being  can  tell.  It  is  impossible  for  his 
contemporaries  either  to  get  a  proper  perspective  of  his 
achievement  or  to  actually  guage  his  genius.  Person- 
ally I  believe  he  will  occupy  as  high  a  place  in-  American 
literature  as  Burns  does  in  the  British,  if  not  higher. 

"But  whether  Paul  Dunbar  will  be  rated  great  or  not,  it 
is  certain  that  he  has  rendered  an  invaluable  service  to 
his  race.  Because  he  has  lived  and  wrought,  the  race  to 
which  he  belonged  has  been  lifted  to  a  higher  plane. 
Each  and  every  person  in  the  United  States  remotely 
identified  with  his  race  is  held  in  higher  esteem  because 
of  the  ability  which  Paul  Dunbar  possessed  and  the  suc- 
cess he  undoubtedly  attained. 

"Indeed  the  whole  civilized  world  has  greater  respect 
for  that  race  which  some  have  the  ignorance  to  underes- 
timate and  others  the  hardihood  to  despise,  because  this 
black  man, -through  whose  veins  not  a  drop  of  Caucasian 
blood  was  known  to  flow,  has  given  such  a  splendid  and 
striking  proof  of  its  capacity  for  high  intellectual  achieve- 
ment." 


MY  LAST  VISIT  TO  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 

The  austere  face  of  a  winter  sun  was  hidden  behind  a 
veil  of  forbidding  gray,  and  the  earth  and  sky  were  monk- 
garbed  and  sombre-eyed  that  last  day  that  I  saw  Dunbar. 

His  bed  had  been  brought  down-stairs,  so  that  his 
mother  could  be  near  him  as  she  performed  her  house- 
hold duties,  and  as  he  lay  there  among  the  pillows  one 
could  see  how  weak  he  was,  how  wasted  and  how  frail. 
But,  as  I  entered  the  room,  approached  his  bed  and  took 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  127 

his  hand,  his  smile  was  just  as  bright  and  his  words 
were  just  as  brave  as  they  had  been  in  the  earlier  days 
of  our  acquaintance.  There  was  the  customary  badin- 
age, the  never-failing  inquiry  as  to  why  I  had  not  been 
to  see  him  for  so  long,  and  the  pathetic  enthusiasm  over 
the  world-interests  which  for  him  were  so  soon  to  be  as 
naught. 

By  and  by  he  was  permitted  to  sit  in  his  chair  by  the 
window,  and  to  me  it  seemed  as  a  throne,  where  all  the 
lovers  of  art  should  fall  down  and  worship.  But  ah  what 
a  weak  king  he  was,  how  like  a  little  child !  Yet  his 
great  eyes  were  still  bright,  and  his  heart  aglow  with  the 
flame  that  warmed  it  to  the  last. 

Presently  as  he  sat  there  he  said  to  his  mother  who  was 
passing  through  the  room  — 

"  Ma,  I  never  did  get  to  see  my  flowers  that  came 
this  morning." 

"  Well,  Paul,  I  have  them  in  the  parlor,  where  it  is 
cold,  so  that  they  will  keep  till  Sunday !  " 

"Oh,  I  forgot,"  he  said  with  a  sigh,  "that  the  flowers 
cannot  live  in  a  room  that  is  warm  enough  for  me  ! " 

In  a  few  moments  Mrs.  Dunbar  brought  in  a  vase, 
filled  with  gorgeous  American  Beauty  roses,  and  I  placed 
them  on  a  little  stool  at  his  feet,  where  he  could  look  at 
them  for  a  while. 

Oh,  how  he  gazed  at  those  flowers !  so  wistfully,  as 
though  he  envied  them  their  glorious  beauty  and  perfect 
development — so  tenderly,  as  though  each  rose  had  a 
human  heart  and  an  ache  in  it — so  reverently,  as  though 
the  vase  were  a  shrine  and  he  an  ardent  devotee ! 

Then  with  moist  eyes  and  a  heart-breaking  smile  he 
said,  turning  to  his  mother  — 


128  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

"  Take  them  away,  ma,  so  they  may  *  keep  for  Sun- 
day.' " 

He  then  fell  to  talking  of  Wilberforce — the  African 
missionary  of  whom  the  papers  were  saying  such  dread- 
ful things  at  the  time,  claiming  that  he  had  gone  back  to 
savagery  and  cannibalism. 

"  It  is  an  outrage  !  Oh,  how  I  wish  I  were  able  to  do 
something  to  correct  those  stories.  They  are  absolutely 
false,  and  it  is  such  an  awful  blow  to  the  race ! " 

He  spoke  feelingly  of  the  missionary  who  had  been 
educated  by  the  United  Brethren  church, — and  one  could 
see  how  he  chafed  under  the  weakness  that  chained  him 
down  when  he  longed  so  to  go  forth  and  do  battle  for 
his  race. 

That  same  day  we  chanced  to  speak  of  Alice  and 
Phoebe  Gary.  I  told  him  of  several  visits  I*  had  made 
their  brother  at  the  old  home  near  College  Hill,  Ohio, 
and  of  my  having  found  in  a  history  of  the  family  a  men- 
tion of  the  coat  of  arms,  won  by  a  remote  Gary  on  English 
battle-fields.  When  I  quoted  the  Latin  legend,  and  gave 
him  my  version  of  the  translation  he  thought  I  had  it 
wrong,  and  was  not  satisfied  till  I  went  up  to  his  library 
and  found  his  Latin  grammar.  I  shall  never  forget  how 
eagerly  he  scanned  the  well-worn  text-book,  though  his 
hand  trembled  so  he  could  scarcely  hold  the  volume.  It 
was  pitiful  indeed  to  see  him  thus  employed,  when  one 
knew  how  soon  he  must  lay  forever  aside  his  precious  books 
and  leave  them  all  behind.  . 

That  was  the  last  time  I  saw  him  alive.  Two  months 
later,  a  message  came  over  my  telephone  :  "  Paul  Dunbar 
is  dead." 

It  was  with  a  strange  mixture  of  feelings  that  I  started 


HON.   BRAND  WHITLOCK,   MAYOR  OF  TOLEDO 

Who  counted  Dunbar  as  one  of  his  dear  friends,  and  who  when 
asked  for  a  word  for  this  biography  said:  "  Say  that  his  picture 
hangs  on  my  library  wall  with  that  of  Walt  Whitman,  Thoreau 
and  others  of  my  favorites." 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  131 

once  more  for  Dayton— on  the  day  of  Mr.  Dunbar's 
funeral. 

Down  town  I  bought  a  few  flowers  and  was  about  to 
go  in  search  of  a  messenger  to  take  them  out  to  the  Dun- 
bar  home,  when  I  noticed  a  colored  man  with  another 
florist's  box,  addressed  in  large  letters :  "  For  Paul  Lau- 
rence Dunbar."  The  man  was  waiting  for  a  car,  and  ap- 
proaching him  I  said :  "  Will  you  take  my  flowers  too  ?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  he  replied,  and  I  could  not  but  see  that 
his  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 

Handing  him  a  bit  of  silver  I  said,  "  Here  is  your  fee." 
I  have  never  had  any  one  look  at  me  so  reproachfully  as 
did  that  poor  colored  man  that  day  — 

"  Money  ?  No,  indeed.  It  is  all  I  can  do  for  poor  Paul 
now." 

Later  I  called  at  the  Summit  Street  home,  and  saw  him, 
for  the  first  time,  wholly  at  rest  and  free  from  pain. 

His  DEATH  AND  BURIAL 

On  February  9th,  1906,  it  became  apparent,  early  in 
the  afternoon,  that  Mr.  Dunbar's  end  was  fast  approach- 
ing. A  physician  and  then  a  minister  came.  Thrice  the 
poet  asked  the  time,  and  whether  it  was  day  or  night. 
Then  the  minister  read  the  Twenty-third  Psalm,  which  had 
always  been  Mr.  Dunbar's  favorite  portion  of  Scripture. 
The  dying  man  lay  quietly  listening.  When  the  reader 
ceased,  Dunbar,  in  a  fast-failing  voice,  began  to  repeat 
the  psalm  for  himself,  and  when  he  came  to  the  words  — 

"  When  I  walk  through  the  valley  of  the  shadow — " 

God  must  indeed  have  been  "  with  him,"  for  it  was  then 
that  he  fell  asleep. 


132  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

After  all  his  shortcomings,  his  weaknesses  and  his  mis- 
takes, he  found  at  the  last  the  peace  that  his  life  had  never 
known. 

On  the  afternoon  of  February  I2th  at  the  Eaker  Street 
A.  M.  E.  Church  in  Dayton,  the  funeral  services  were 
held.  On  the  church  records  of  this  little  sanctuary,  the 
name  of  Paul  Laurence  Dunbar  had  been  written  in  his 
own  hand  in  childhood  days,  and  it  had  never  been  erased. 
His  mother,  therefore,  thought  it  appropriate  and  right  to 
have  his  burial  service  there.  So  many  were  the  flowers 
sent  that  they  not  only  banked  the  little  pulpit  and  clus- 
tered about  the  casket,  but  beautiful  bouquets  were  dis- 
tributed about  the  house.  Eloquent  tributes  were  paid 
the  dead  poet  by  the  pastor  of  the  church,  Professor  Scar- 
borough of  Wilberforce  University,  and  other  clergymen 
of  both  races,  but  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  most  touching 
of  them  all  was  the  address  of  his  loyal  friend,  Dr.  H.  A. 
Tobey,  of  Toledo.  Among  other  things  Dr.  Tobey  said  : 
"  I  never  loved  a  man  so  much.  *  Golden  Rule  Jones, 
Brand  Whitlock  and  myself  were  three  great  cronies,  be- 
cause we  were  three  '  cranks,'  I  suppose,  but  we  took  Paul 
in  and  made  him  one  of  us." 

He  spoke  of  Mr.  Dunbar's  distinguished  friends,  re- 
ferring particularly  to  Mr.  William  Dean  Howells  and 
Colonel  Robert  G.  Ingersoll,  paying  Mr.  Ingersoll  a  very 
high  compliment  on  his  own  account.  Dr.  Tobey  then 
read  a  letter,  written  him  by  Mr.  Brand  Whitlock,  Mayor 
of  Toledo,  who  was  prevented  from  attending  the  obse- 
quies by  reason  of  the  critical  illness  of  his  aged  mother. 
The  letter,  revealing  as  it  does,  the  love  of  another  author 
for  Mr.  Dunbar,  and  the  high  place  he  held  in  Mr.  Whit- 
lock's  esteem,  is  given  verbatim  : 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  133 

629  Winthrop  Street^  Toledo ',  Ohio, 

ii  February ',  /potf. 
DEAR  DOCTOR  TOBEY  : 

I  wish  I  could  be  with  you  all  to-morrow  to  pay 
my  tribute  to  poor  Paul.  But  I  cannot,  and  feeling  as  I 
do  his  loss,  I  cannot  now  attempt  any  estimate  of  his  won- 
derful personality  that  would  be  at  all  worthy.  If  friend- 
ship knew  obligation,  I  would  acknowledge .  my  debt  to 
you  for  the  boon  of  knowing  Paul  Dunbar.  It  is  one  of 
the  countless  good  deeds  to  your  credit  that  you  were 
among  the  first  to  recognize  the  poet  in  him  and  help  him 
to  a  larger  and  freer  life. 

For  Paul  was  a  poet :  and  I  find  that  when  I  have  said 
that  I  have  said  the  greatest  and  most  splendid  thing  that 
can  be  said  about  a  man.  Men  call  this  or  that  man  great 
and  load  him  with  what  the  world  holds  to  be  honors — 
its  soldiers  and  its  statesmen,  its  scholars  and  its  scien- 
tists. This  may  all  be  very  well,  but  I  think  we  know  that 
after  all  the  soldiers  and  the  statesmen  and  the  savants 
are  not  concerned  with  the  practical  things  of  life,  the 
things  that  are  really  worth  while.  Nature,  who  knows 
so  much  better  than  man  about  everything,  cares  nothing* 
at  all  for  the  little  distinctions,  and  when  she  elects  one  of 
her  children  for  her  most  important  work,  bestows  on  him 
the  rich  gift  of  poesy,  and  assigns  him  a  post  in  the  great- 
est of  the  arts,  she  invariably  seizes  the  opportunity  to 
show  her  contempt  of  rank  and  title  and  race  and  land 
and  creed.  She  took  Burns  from  a  plow  and  Paul  from 
an  elevator,  and  Paul  has  done  for  his  own  people  what 
Burns  did  for  the  peasants  of  Scotland — he  has  expressed 
them  in  their  own  way  and  in  their  own  words.  There 
are  many  analogies  between  these  two  poets,  just  as  there 
are  many  analogies  between  Paul  and  Shelley  and  Keats 
and  Byron  and  Pushkin.  They  all  died  very  young,  they 
knew  little  of  the  joys  that  are  common  to  common  men, 
but  they  had  their  griefs,  their  sorrows,  their  sufferings, 
far  beyond  the  common  lot.  But  the  terms  on  which 
Nature  lets  her  darlings  become  poets  are  always  or> 


134  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

durate.  To  the  poet,  as  Whitman  says,  agonies  must  be- 
come as  changes  of  garment,  he  must  suffer  all  things, 
hope  all  things,  endure  all  things,  and  knowledge  is  not 
otherwise  obtained.  He  must  go  through  torments  and 
pain,  he  must  feel  the  dreadful  hunger  of  the  soul,  and 
usually  he  must  die  young — all  for  the  sake  of  being  a 
poet.  And  that  is  enough  for  him  after  all,  for  if  the  com- 
mon joys  and  satisfactions — rest  and  peace  and  home  and 
all  that — are  denied  him,  he  has  the  joy  of  artistic  crea- 
tion, which  is  the  highest  man  may  know.  It  is  enough 
for  the  poet  that  he  is  a  poet,  yet  this  is  not  his  glory. 
His  glory  is  that  through  this  experience  he  expresses  for 
the  race  all  joy  and  grief,  all  the  moods  and  emotions, 
exalted  or  depressed,  of  the  human  soul,  and  myriads  of 
voiceless  people,  living  about  him  and  living  after  him, 
find  the  solace  and  relief  that  come  of  expression  which, 
were  it  not  for  him,  they  would  be  compelled  to  go  with- 
out and  suffer  dumbly. 

I  have  spoken  of  our  friend  as 'a  poet  of  his  own  people 
and  this  he  was  :  he  expressed  his  own  race — its  humor, 
its  kindliness,  its  fancy,  its  love  of  grace  and  melody :  he 
expressed,  too,  its  great  sufferings,  and  what  race  has 
suffered  more,  or  more  unjustly,  or  what  race  has  borne 
its  sufferings  with  sublimer  patience  ?  It  is  a  race  that 
has  produced  many  great  and  worthy  men,  in  the  very 
face  of  untold  opposition  and  prejudice,  but  the  work  of 
these  men  has  been  more  or  less  confined  to  their  race. 
But  without  the  least  disparagement,  I  think  I  can  say 
that  Paul's  range  and  appeal  were  wider  than  those  of 
any  other  of  his  race  :  if  they  had  not  been  he  would  not 
have  been  a  poet.  For  the  true  poet  is  universal  as  is 
the  love  he  incarnates  in  himself,  and  Paul's  best  poetry 
has  this  quality  of  universality. 

I  am  very  glad  that  he  was  so  thoroughly  American 
and  democratic.  He  might  have  been  a  poet  without 
having  been  an  American,  but  he  could  not  have  been  a 
poet  without  having  been  democratic,  and  I  believe  I  may 
safely  add  that  he  could  not  have  been  a  poet  without 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  135 

having  had  at  least  the  spirit  of  America.  For  all  poets 
have  had  this  spirit :  they  have  loved  liberty,  equality 
and  fraternity.  You  know  Browning  says  : 

Shakespeare  was  of  us,  Milton  was  for  us, 

Burns,  Shelley  were  with  us — they  watch  from  their  graves. 

There  was  nothing  foreign  in  Paul's  poetry,  nothing 
imported,  nothing  imitated  :  it  was  all  original,  native  and 
indigenous.  Thus  he  becomes  the  poet  not  of  his  own 
race  alone — I  wish  I  could  make  people  see  this — but  the 
poet  of  you  and  of  me  and  of  all  men  everywhere. 

You  and  I  know  something  of  his  deeper  sufferings, 
something  of  the  disease  that  really  killed  him.  I  can 
never  forget  the  things  he  said  about  this  that  last  even- 
ing we  spent  together.  I  know  nothing  anywhere  so 
pathetic  as  this  brave,  gentle,  loving  spirit  with  its  poet's 
heart,  moving  among  men,  who,  though  far  his  inferior 
in  intellectual  and  spiritual  endowment,  yet  claimed  to 
be — but  I  must  not  recall  such  things  now.  The  deep 
melancholy  this  caused  him  has  been  expressed  over  and 
over  in  his  poems.  "  The  Warrior's  Prayer,"  "  We  wear 
the  Mask,"  and  others  are  veritably  steeped  in  it.  Let 
that  suffice. 

That  last  evening  he  recited — oh,  what  a  voice  he 
had  ! — his  "  Ships  that  Pass  in  the  Night."  You  will  re- 
member. I  sat  and  listened  sadly  conscious  that  I  would 
not  hear  him  often  again,  knowing  that  voice  would  soon 
be  mute.  I  can  hear  him  now  and  see  the  expression  on 
his  fine  face  as  he  said  "  Passing  !  Passing  ! "  It  was  pro- 
phetic. 

We  shall  hear  that  deep,  melodious  voice  no  more :  his 
humor,  his  drollery,  his  exquisite  mimicry — these  are 
gone.  And  to-morrow  you  will  lay  his  tired  body  away, 
fittingly  enough,  on  Lincoln's  birthday.  But  his  songs 
will  live  and  give  his  beautiful  personality  an  immortality 
in  this  world,  and  we — we  can  remember  that  he  is  with 
Theocritus  to-night.  Yours  very  sincerely, 

BRAND  WHITLOCK. 


I36  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

Dr.  Davis  W.  Clark,  of  the  Methodist  Episcopal 
Church,  one  of  the  most  scholarly  men  of  that  com- 
munion, offered  the  final  prayer  at  Mr.  Dunbar's  .funeral. 
Dr.  Clark  was  so  impressed  by  the  occasion  that  he  soon 
after  set  about  securing  funds  for  a  monument  to  the 
poet's  memory.  Speaking  of  the  event  a  few  weeks 
afterwards  Dr.  Clark  said  : 

"  When  I  saw  him  lying  there  in  his  casket,  he  seemed 
to  me  a  prince." 

The  remains  of  Paul  Laurence  Dunbar  were  placed  in 
the  vault  at  the  beautiful  Woodland  Cemetery  in  Dayton, 
and  two  months  later,  he  was  buried.  The  site  of  his 
grave  is  well  chosen,  being  at  the  summit  of  a  little  hill, 
and  in  selecting  it  his  mother  endeavored  to  follow  as 
nearly  as  might  be,  the  wishes  voiced  by  her  son  in  his 
"  Death  Song."  She  will  plant  a  willow  near  the  mound, 
so  that  by  and  by  he  will  be  lying  "  neaf  de  willers  in  de 
grass."  He  is  near  also  to  "  de  noises  in  de  road,"  for 
the  grave  is  in  view  of  one  of  the  entrances  to  the 
cemetery.  .  .  . 

Summing  it  all  up,  this  short,  feverish,  brilliant  life — an 
honest  observer  can  but  agree  with  the  poet's  best  be- 
loved friend  Dr.  Tobey,  who  when  a  sympathetic  admirer 
of  Mr.  Dunbar's  said:  "It  is  such  a  pity  he  had  to 
die," — exclaimed : 

.  "  No,  thank  God,  I'm  glad  he's  gone— this  world  was 
too  sad  a  place  for  him." 


PART  II 
The  Poems  of  Paul  Laurence  Dunbar 


ERE    SLEEP    COMES    DOWN    TO 
SOOTHE  THE  WEARY  EYES 

This  poem  is  one  of  the  most  profound 
that  Mr.  Dunbar  ever  wrote,  though  it  is 
one  of  his  early  productions.  It  attracted 
the  attention  of  many  learned  persons  be- 
fore the  poet  became  famous.  Among 
those  who  spoke  of  it  especially,  were  the 
playwright  James  A.  Herne  and  Colonel 
Robert  G.  Ingersoll. 

ERE  sleep  comes  down  to  soothe  the  weary 

eyes, 
Which  all  the  day  with  ceaseless  care 

have  sought 
The  magic  gold  which  from  the  seeker 

flies; 
Ere  dreams  put  on  the  gown  and  cap 

of  thought, 
And  make  the  waking  world  a  world  of 

lies, — 

Of  lies  most  palpable,  uncouth,  forlorn, 
That  say  life's  full  of  aches  and  tears  and 

sighs,  — 
Oh,  how  with   more   than  dreams  the 

soul  is  torn, 

Ere  sleep  comes  down  to  soothe  the  weary 
eyes. 

Ere  sleep  comes  down  to  soothe  the  weary 

eyes, 
How  all  the  griefs  and  heartaches  we 

have  known 

Come  up  like  pois'nous  vapors  that  arise 
From  some  base  witch's  caldron,  when 

the  crone, 

To  work  some  potent  spell,  her  magic  plies. 
The  past  which  held  its  share  of  bitter 
pain, 


Whose  ghost  we  prayed  that  Time  might 

exorcise, 
Comes   up,  is  lived  and   suffered  o'er 

again, 
Ere  sleep  comes  down  to  soothe  the  weary 

eyes. 

Ere  sleep  comes  down  to  soothe  the  weary 

eyes, 
What  phantoms  fill  the  dimly  lighted 

room  ; 

What  ghostly  shades  in  awe-creating  guise 
Are   bodied   forth  within  the  teeming 

gloom. 
What  echoes  faint  of  saa  and  soul  sick 

cries, 

And  pangs  of  vague  inexplicable  pain 
That  pay  the  spirit's  ceaseless  enterprise, 
Come  thronging  through  the  chambers 

of  the  brain, 

Ere  sleep  comes  down  to  soothe  the  weary 
eyes. 

Ere  sleep  comes  down  to  soothe  the  weary 

eyes, 
Where  ranges  forth  the  spirit  far  and 

free? 

Through  what   strange  realms  and  unfa- 
miliar skies 

Tends  her  far  course  to  lands  of  mys- 
tery ? 

To  lands  unspeakable — beyond  surmise, 
Where    shapes    unknowable    to  being 

spring, 

Till,  faint  of  wing,  the  Fancy  fails  and  dies 
Much  wearied  with  the  spirit's  journey- 
ing, 

Ere  sleep  comes  down  to  soothe  the  weary 
eyes. 


137 


138 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


Ere  sleep  comes  down  to  soothe  the  weary 

eyes, 
How  questioneth  the   soul   that  other 

soul, — 
The  inner  sense  which  neither  cheats  nor 

lies, 

But  self  exposes  unto  self,  a  scroll 
Full  writ  with  all  life's  acts   unwise   or 

wise, 

In  characters  indelible  and  known ; 
So,  trembling  with   the  shock  of  sad  sur- 
prise, 

The  soul  doth  view  its  awful  self  alone, 
Ere  sleep  comes  down  to  soothe  the  weary 
eyes. 

When  sleep  comes  down  to  seal  the  weary 

eyes, 
The  last  dear  sleep  whose  soft  embrace 

is  balm, 
And  whom  sad  sorrow  teaches  us  to  prize 

For  kissing  all  our  passions  into  calm, 
Ah,  then,  no  more  we  heed  the  sad  world's 

cries, 

Or  seek  to  probe  th'  eternal  mystery, 
Or  fret  our  souls  at  long-withheld  replies, 
At  glooms  through  which  our  visions 

cannot  see, 

When  sleep  comes  down  to  seal  the  weary 
eyes. 

THE  POET  AND  HIS  SONG 
A  song  is  but  a  little  thing, 
And  yet  what  joy  it  is  to  sing  ! 
In  hours  of  toil  it  gives  me  zest, 
And  when  at  eve  I  long  for  rest ; 
When  cows  come  home  along  the  bars, 

And  in  the  fold  I  hear  the  bell, 
As  Night,  the  shepherd,  herds  his  stars, 

I  sing  my  song,  and  all  is  well. 

There  are  no  ears  to  hear  my  lays, 
No  lips  to  lift  a  word  of  praise ; 
But  still,  with  faith  unfaltering, 
I  live  and  laugh  and  love  and  sing. 
What  matters  yon  unheeding  throng  ? 

They  cannot  feel  my  spirit's  spell, 
Since  life  is  sweet  and  love  is  long, 

I  sing  my  song,  and  all  is  well. 

My  days  are  never  days  of  ease  ;  • 
I  till  my  ground  and  prune  my  trees. 


When  ripened  gold  is  all  the  plain, 

I  put  my  sickle  to  the  grain. 

I  labor  hard,  and  toil  and  sweat, 

While  others  dream  within  the  dell ; 
But  even  while  my  brow  is  wet, 

I  sing  my  song,  and  all  is  well. 

Sometimes  the  sun,  unkindly  hot, 
My  garden  makes  a  desert  spot ; 
Sometimes  a  blight  upon  the  tree 
Takes  all  my  fruit  away  from  me  ; 
And  then  with  throes  of  bitter  pain 

Rebellious  passions  rise  and  swell ; 
But — life  is  more  than  fruit  or  grain, 

And  so  I  sing,  and  all  is  well. 

RETORT 

"  Thou  art  a  fool,"  said  my  head  to  my 

heart, 
"  Indeed,  the  greatest  of  fools  thou  art, 

To  be  led  astray  by  the  trick  of  a  tress, 
By  a  smiling  face  or  a  ribbon  smart ; " 

And  my  heart  was  in  sore  distress. 

Then  Phyllis  came  by,  and  her  face  was 

fair, 

The  light  gleamed  soft  on  her  raven  hair ; 

And  her  lips  were  blooming  a  rosy  red. 

Then  my  heart  spoke  out  with  a  right  bold 

air: 
"  Thou  art  worse  than  a  fool,  O  head !  " 

ACCOUNTABILITY 

Folks  ain't  got  no  right  to  censuah  othah 
folks  about  dey  habits  ; 

Him  dat  giv'  de  squir'ls  de  bushtails  made 
de  bobtails  fu'  de  rabbits. 

Him  dat  built  de  gread  big  mountains  hol- 
lered out  de  little  valleys, 

Him  dat  made  de  streets  an'  driveways 
wasn't  shamed  to  make  de  alleys. 

We  is  all  constructed  diff' ent,  d'ain't  no 

two  of  us  de  same  ; 
We  cain't  he'p  ouah  likes  an'  dislikes,  ef 

we'se  bad  we  ain't  to  blame. 
Ef  we'se  good,  we  needn't  show  off,  case 

you  bet  it  ain't  ouah  doin' 
We  gits  into  su'ttain  channels  dat  we  jes' 

cain't  he'p  pu'suin*. 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


139 


But  we   all  fits  into  places  dat  no  othah 

ones  could  fill, 
An'  we  does  the  things  we  has  to,  big  er 

little,  good  er  ill. 
John  cain't  tek  de  place  o'  Henry,  Su  an* 

Sally  ain't  alike ; 
Bass  ain't  nuthin'  like  a  suckah,  chub  ain't 

nuthin'  like  a  pike. 

When  you  come  to  think  about  it,  how  it's 

all  planned  out  it's  splendid, 
Nuthin's  done  er  evah  happens,  'dout  hit's 

somefin'  dat's  intended ; 
Don't  keer  whut  you  does,  you  has  to,  an* 

hit  sholy  beats  de  dickens, — 
Viney,  go  put  on  de  kittle,  I  got  one  o* 

mastah  s  chickens. 

FREDERICK  DOUGLASS 

A  hush  is  over  all  the  teeming  lists, 
And  there  is  pause,  a  breath-space  in 
the  strife ; 

A  spirit  brave  has  passed  beyond  the  mists 
And  vapors  that  obscure  the  sun  of  life. 

And  Ethiopia,  with  bosom  torn, 

Laments  the  passing  of  her  noblest  born. 

She   weeps  for  him  a  mother's  burning 

tears  — 
She  loved  him  with  a  mother's  deepest 

love. 

He  was  her  champion  thro'  direful  years, 

And  held  her  weal  all  other  ends  above. 

When  Bondage  held  her  bleeding  in  the 

dust, 
He  raised  her  up  and  whispered,  "  Hope 

and  Trust." 

For  her  his  voice,  a  fearless  clarion,  rung 
That  broke  in  warning  on  the  ears  of 

men ; 
For  her  the  strong  bow  of  his  power  he 

strung, 

And  sent  his  arrows  to  the  very  den 
Where  grim  Oppression  held  his  bloody 

place 
And  gloated  o'er  the  mis'ries  of  a  race. 

And  he  was  no  soft-tongued  apologist ; 
He  spoke  straightforward,  fearlessly  un- 
cowed  j 


The   sunlight  of  his  truth  dispelled  the 

mist, 
And  set  in  bold  relief  each  dark-hued 

cloud ; 
To  sin  and  crime  he  gave  their  proper 

hue, 
And  hurled  at  evil  what  was  evil's  due. 

Through  good  and  ill  report  he  cleaved 

his  way 
Right  onward,  with  his  face  set  toward 

the  heights, 
Nor  feared   to   face   the  foeman's  dread 

array,— 
The  lash  of  scorn,  the  sting  of  petty 

spites. 
He  dared  the  lightning  in  the  lightning's 

track, 
And  answered  thunder  with  his  thunder 

back. 

When  men  maligned  him,  and  their  torrent 

wrath 

In  furious  imprecations  o'er  him  broke, 
He  kept  his  counsel  as  he  kept  his  path ; 
'Twas  for  his  race,  not  for  himself,  he 

spoke. 

He  knew  the  import  of  his  Master's  call, 
And  felt  himself  too  mighty  to  be  small. 

No  miser  in  the  good  he  held  was  he, — 
His  kindness  followed  his  horizon's  rim. 

His  heart,  his  talents,  and  his  hands  were 

free 
To  all  who  truly  needed  aught  of  him. 

Where  poverty  and  ignorance  were  rife, 

He  gave  his  bounty  as  he  gave  his  life. 

The  place  and  cause  that  first  aroused  his 

might 
Still  proved  its  power  until  his  latest 

day. 

In  Freedom's  lists  and  for  the  aid  of  Right 
Still  in  the  foremost  rank  he  waged  the 

fray; 
Wrong    lived;    his    occupation   was  not 

gone. 
He  died  in  action  with  his  armor  on ! 

We  weep  for  him,  but  we  have  touched 
his  hand, 


140 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


And  felt  the  magic  of  his  presence  nigh, 
The  current  that  he  sent  throughout  the 

land, 

The  kindling  spirit  of  his  battle-cry. 
O'er  all  that  holds  us  we  shall  triumph  yet, 
And  place  our  banner   where  his  hopes 
were  set ! 

Oh,  Douglass,  thou  hast  passed  beyond  the 

shore, 
But  still  thy  voice  is  ringing  o'er  the 

gale! 
Thou'st   taught   thy   race  how  high   her 

hopes  may  soar, 
And   bade   her  seek   the   heights,  nor 

faint,  nor  fail. 
She  will   not  fail,  she  heeds  thy  stirring 

cry, 

She  knows  thy  guardian  spirit  will  be  nigh, 
And,  rising  from  beneath  the   chast'ning 

rod, 
She  stretches  out  her  bleeding  hands  to 

God! 


LIFE 

It  is  doubtful  if  any  modern  poem  has 
had  a  wider  reading  than  this.  It  was  a 
favorite  selection  of  Mr.  Dunbar's  when 
reciting,  and  his  reading  of  it  was  very 
impressive.  It  is  peculiarly  typical  of  his 
own  experiences  in  life  as  well  as  of  those 
of  us  all.  In  spite  of  his  frank  acknowl- 
edgment of  the  predominance  of  the 
"  groans,"  however,  he  would  not  end  the 
poem  without  a  bit  of  exhortation  and  a 
crumb  of  comfort — for,  after  all,  it  is  true, 
as  he  sings,  that 

"  Joy  seems  sweeter  when  cares  come  after, 
And  a  moan  is  the  finest  of  foils  for  laughter," 

and  the  man  of  sorrows  is  the  man  who 
wins  the  ear  and  the  heart  of  the  world. 


A  crust  of  bread  and  a  corner  to  sleep  in, 
A  minute  to  smile  and  an  hour  to  weep  in, 
A  pint  of  joy  to  a  peck  of  trouble, 
And  never  a  laugh  but  the  moans  come 
double ; 

And  that  is  life ! 


A  crust  and  a  corner  that  love  makes 

precious, 
With  the  smile  to  warm  and  the  tears  to 

refresh  us ; 
And  joy  seems  sweeter  when  cares  come 

after, 
And   a   moan   is  the   finest  of    foils   for 

laughter ; 

And  that  is  life ! 


THE  LESSON 

My  cot  was  down  by  a  cypress  grove, 
And    I  sat   by   my   window  the  whole 

night  long, 
And   heard  well  up  from  the  deep  dark 

wood 
A  mocking-bird's  passionate  song. 

And  I  thought  of  myself  so  sad  and  lone, 
And  my  life's  cold  winter  that  knew  no 
spring ; 

Of  my  mind  so  weary  and  sick  and  wild, 
Of  my  heart  too  sad  to  sing. 

But  e'en  as  I  listened  the  mock-bird's 
song, 

A  thought  stole  into  my  saddened  heart, 
And  I  said,  "  I  can  cheer  some  other  soul 

By  a  carol's  simple  art." 

For  oft  from  the  darkness  of  hearts  and 

lives 
Come   songs  that  brim   with  joy  and 

light, 

As  out  of  the  gloom  of  the  cypress  grove 
The  mocking-bird  sings  at  night. 

So  I  sang  a  lay  for  a  brother's  ear 

In  a  strain  to  soothe  his  bleeding  heart 

And  he  smiled  at   the  sound  of  my  voice 

and  lyre, 
Though  mine  was  a  feeble  art. 

But  at  his  smile  I  smiled  in  turn, 
And  into  my  soul  there  came  a  ray : 

In  trying  to  soothe  another's  woes 
Mine  own  had  passed  away. 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


141 


THE  RISING  OF  THE  STORM 

The  lake's  dark  breast 

Is  all  unrest, 
It  heaves  with  a  sob  and  a  sigh. 

Like  a  tremulous  bird, 

From  its  slumber  stirred, 
The  moon  is  a-tilt  in  the  sky. 

From  the  silent  deep 

The  waters  sweep, 
But  faint  on  the  cold  white  stones, 

And  the  wavelets  fly 

With  a  plaintive  cry 
O'er  the  old  earth's  bare,  bleak  bones. 

And  the  spray  upsprings 

On  its  ghost-white  wings, 
And  tosses  a  kiss  at  the  stars ; 

While  a  water-sprite, 

In  sea-pearls  dight, 
Hums  a  sea-hymn's  solemn  bars. 

Far  out  in  the  night, 

On  the  wavering  sight 
I  see  a  dark  hull  loom  ; 

And  its  light  on  high, 

Like  a  Cyclops'  eye, 
Shines  out  through  the  mist  and  gloom. 

Now  the  winds  well  up 

From  the  earth's  deep  cup, 
And  fall  on  the  sea  and  shore, 

And  against  the  pier 

The  waters  rear 
And  break  with  a  sullen  roar. 

Up  comes  the  gale, 

And  the  mist-wrought  veil 
Gives  way  to  the  lightning's  glare, 

And  the  cloud-drifts  fall, 

A  sombre  pall, 
O'er  water,  earth,  and  air. 

The  storm-king  flies, 

His  whip  he  plies, 
And  bellows  down  the  wind. 

The  lightning  rash 

With  blinding  flash 
Comes  pricking  on  behind. 


Rise,  waters,  rise, 

And  taunt  the  skies 
With  your  swift-flitting  form. 

Sweep,  wild  winds,  sweep, 

And  tear  the  deep 
To  atoms  in  the  storm. 

And  the  waters  leapt, 
And  the  wild  winds  swept, 

And  blew  out  the  moon  in  the  sky, 
'  And  I  laughed  with  glee, 
It  was  joy  to  me 

As  the  storm  went  raging  by ! 

SUNSET 

The  river  sleeps  beneath  the  sky, 

And  clasps  the  shadows  to  its  breast; 
The  crescent  moon  shines  dim  on  high ; 
And  in  the  lately  radiant  west 
The  gold  is  fading  into  gray. 
Now  stills  the  lark  his  festive  lay, 
And  mourns  with  me  the  dying  day. 

While  in  the  south  the  first  faint  star 

Lifts  to  the  night  its  silver  face, 
And  twinkles  to  the  moon  afar 
Across  the  heaven's  graying  space, 
Low   murmurs    reach   me   from   the 

town, 

As  Day  puts  on  her  sombre  crown, 
And  snakes  her  mantle  darkly  down. 


THE  OLD  APPLE-TREE 

There's  a  memory  keeps  a-runnin* 

Through  my  weary  head  to-night, 
An'  I  see  a  picture  dancin' 

In  the  fire-flames'  ruddy  light ; 
'Tis  the  picture  of  an  orchard 

Wrapped  in  autumn's  purple  haze, 
With  the  tender  light  about  it 

That  I  loved  in  other  days. 
An'  a-standin'  in  a  corner 

Once  again  I  seem  to  see 
The  verdant  leaves  an'  branches 

Of  an  old  apple-tree. 

You  perhaps  would  call  it  ugly, 

An'  I  don't  know  but  it's  so, 
When  you  look  the  tree  all  over 


142 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


Unadorned  by  memory's  glow  ; 
For  its  boughs  are  gnarled  an'  crooked, 

An'  its  leaves  are  gettin*  thin, 
An'  the  apples  of  its  bearin' 

Wouldn't  fill  so  large  a  bin 
As  they  used  to.     But  I  tell  you, 

When  it  comes  to  pleasin'  me, 
It's  the  dearest  in  the  orchard, — 

Is  that  old  apple-tree. 

I  would  hide  within  its  shelter, 

Settlin'  in  some  cozy  nook, 
Where  no  calls  nor  threats  could  stir  me 

From  the  pages  of  my  book. 
Oh,  that  quiet,  sweet  seclusion 

In  its  fulness  passeth  words  ! 
It  was  deeper  than  the. deepest 

That  my  sanctum  now  affords. 
Why,  the  jaybirds  an'  the  robins, 

They  was  hand  in  glove  with  me, 
As  they  winked  at  me  an'  warbled 

In  that  old  apple-tree. 

It  was  on  its  sturdy  branches 

That  in  summers  long  ago 
I  would  tie  my  swing  an'  dangle 

In  contentment  to  an'  fro, 
Idly  dreamin'  childish  fancies, 

Buildin'  castles  in  the  air, 
Makin'  o'  myself  a  hero 

Of  romances  rich  an'  rare. 
I  kin  shet  my  eyes  an'  see  it 

Jest  as  plain  as  plain  kin  be, 
That  same  old  swing  a-danglin' 

To  the  old  apple-tree. 

There's  a  rustic  seat  beneath  it 

That  I  never  kin  forget. 
It's  the  place  where  me  an'  Hallie  — 

Little  sweetheart — used  to  set, 
When  we'd  wander  to  the  orchard 

So's  no  listenin'  ones  could  hear 
As  I  whispered  sugared  nonsense 

Into  her  little  willin'  ear. 
Now  my  gray  old  wife  is  Hallie, 

An'  I'm  grayer  still  than  she, 
But  I'll  not  forget  our  courtin' 

'Neath  the  old  apple-tree. 

Life  for  us  ain't  all  been  summer, 
But  I  guess  we've  had  our  share 


Of  its  flittin'  joys  an*  pleasures, 

An'  a  sprinklin'  of  its  care. 
Oft  the  skies  have  smiled  upon  us  ; 

Then  again  we've  seen  'em  frown, 
Though  our  load  was  ne'er  so  heavy 

That  we  longed  to  lay  it  down. 
But  when  death  does  come  a-callin', 

This  my  last  request  shall  be, — 
That  they'll  bury  me  an'  Hallie 

'Neath  the  old  apple-tree. 


A  PRAYER 

O  Lord,  the  hard- won  miles 
Have  worn  my  stumbling  feet : 

Oh,  soothe  me  with  thy  smiles, 
And  make  my  life  complete. 

The  thorns  were  thick  and  keen 
Where'er  I  trembling  trod  ; 

The  way  was  long  between 
My  wounded  feet  and  God. 

Where  healing  waters  flow 
Do  thou  my  footsteps  lead. 

My  heart  is  aching  so  ; 
Thy  gracious  balm  I  need. 

PASSION  AND  LOVE 

A  maiden  wept  and,  as  a  comforter, 
Came  one  who  cried,  "  I  love  thee,"  and 

he  seized 
Her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  with  hot 

breath, 
That   dried   the   tears   upon  her  flaming 

cheeks. 

While  evermore  his  boldly  blazing  eye 
Burned  into  hers  ;  but  she  uncomforted 
Shrank  from  his  arms  and  only  wept  the 

more. 

Then  one  came  and  gazed  mutely  in  her 

face 
With   wide   and   wistful   eyes ;    but  still 

aloof 

He  held  himself;  as  with  a  reverent  fear, 
As  one  who  knows  some  sacred  presence 

nigh. 
And  as  she  wept  he  mingled  tear  with 

tear, 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


143 


That  cheered  her  soul  like  dew  a  dusty 

flower, — 
Until  she  smiled,  approached,  and  touched 

his  hand ! 


THE  SEEDLING 

As  a  quiet  little  seedling 

Lay  within  its  darksome  bed, 

To  itself  it  fell  a-talking. 
And  this  is  what  it  said  : 


"  I  am  not  so  very  robust, 
But  I'll  do  the  best  I  can  ;  " 

And  the  seedling  from  that  moment 
Its  work  of  life  began.  . 

So  it  pushed  a  little  leaflet 

Up  into  the  light  of  day, 
To  examine  the  surroundings 

And  show  the  rest  the  way. 

The  leaflet  liked  the  prospect, 
So  it  called  its  brother,  Stem  ; 

Then  two  other  leaflets  heard  it, 
And  quickly  followed  them. 

To  be  sure,  the  haste  and  hurry 
Made  the  seedling  sweat  and  pant ; 

But  almost  before  it  knew  it 
It  found  itself  a  plant. 

The  sunshine  poured  upon  it, 

And  the  clouds  they  gave  a  shower; 

And  the  little  plant  kept  growing 
Till  it  found  itself  a  flower. 


Little  folks,  be  like  the  seedling, 
Always  do  the  best  you  can  ; 

Every  child  must  share  life's  labor 
Just  as  well  as  every  man. 

And  the  sun  and  showers  will  help  you 
Through    the    lonesome,    struggling 
hours,, 

Till  you  raise  to  light  and  beauty 
Virtue's  fair,  unfading  flowers. 


PROMISE  AND  FULFILMENT 

This  pair  of  poems  was  so  admired  by 
Minnie  Maddern  Fiske  that  she  wrote  the 
author  asking  permission  to  use  them  on 
the  stage.  This  was  granted,  and  the 
lines  were  read  many  times  with  flattering 
applause.  It  is  pathetic  to  reflect  upon 
the  fact  that  this  very  thing  came  in  after 
years,  to  be  a  real  part  of  the  poet's  heart 
history.  At  the  moment  when  his  joy 
should  have  been  at  its  height,  and  his 
rose  of  love  was  ready  for  the  blooming, 
it  was  discovered,  alas,  that,  in  very  deed, 
a  "  worm  was  at  its  heart." 

I  grew  a  rose  within  a  garden  fair, 

And,  tending   it  with   more   than  loving 

care, 

I  thought  how,  with  the  glory  of  its  bloom, 
I  should  the  darkness  of  my  life  illume ; 
And,  watching,  ever   smiled   to   see   the 

lusty  bud 
Drink  freely  in  the  summer  sun  to  tinct 

its  blood. 

My  rose  began  to  open,  and  its  hue 
Was  sweet  to  me  as  to  it  sun  and  dew ; 
I  watched  it  taking  on  its  ruddy  flame 
Until  the  day  of  perfect  blooming  came, 
Then  hasted  I  with  smiles  to  find  it  blush- 
ing red  — 

Too   late!     Some   thoughtless   child  had 
plucked  my  rose  and  fled ! 


FULFILMENT 

I  grew  a  rose  once  more  to  please  mine 
eyes. 

All  things  to  aid  it — dew,  sun,  wind,  fair 
skies  — 

Were  kindly  ;  and  to  shield  it  from  de- 
spoil, 

I  fenced  it  safely  in  with  grateful  toil. 

No  other  hand  than  mine  shall  pluck  this 
flower,  said  I, 

And  I  was  jealous  of  the  bee  that  hovered 
nigh. 

It  grew  for  days  ;  I  stood  hour  after  hour 
To  watch  the  slow  unfolding  of  the  flower, 


144 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


And  then  I  did  not  leave  its  side  at  all, 
Lest  some  mischance   my  flower  should 

befall. 
At  last,  oh, joy!  the  central  petals  burst 

apart. 
It  blossomed — but,  alas !  a  worm  was  at 

its  heart ! 

SONG 

My  heart  to  thy  heart, 

My  hand  to  thine  ; 
My  lips  to  thy  lips, 
Kisses  are  wine 
Brewed    for  the  lover  in  sunshine  and 

shade ; 
Let  me  drink  deep,  then,  my  African  maid. 

Lily  to  lily, 

Rose  unto  rose ; 

My  love  to  thy  love 

Tenderly  grows. 

Rend  not  the  oak  and  the  ivy  in  twain, 
Nor  the  swart  maid  from  her  swarthier 


AN  ANTE-BELLUM  SERMON 

We  is  gathahed  hyeah,  my  brothahs, 

In  dis  howlin'  wildaness, 
Fu'  to  speak  some  words  of  comfo't 

To  each  othah  in  distress. 
An'  we  chooses  fu'  ouah  subjic' 

Dis — we'll  'splain  it  by  an'  by ; 
"  An'  de  Lawd  said,  «  Moses,  Moses,' 

An*  de  man  said, «  Hyeah  am  I.'  " 

Now  ole  Pher'oh,  down  in  Egypt, 

Was  de  wuss  man  evah  bo'n, 
An'  he  had  de  Hebrew  chillun 

Down  dah  wukin'  in  his  co'n  ; 
'Twell  de  Lawd  got  tiahed  o*  his  foolin', 

An'  sez  he  :  "  I'll  let  him  know  — 
Look  hyeah,  Moses,  go  tell  Pher'oh 

Fu'  to  let  dem  chillun  go. 

"  An'  ef  he  refuse  to  do  it, 

I  will  make  him  rue  de  houah, 

Fu'  I'll  empty  down  on  Egypt 
All  de  vials  of  my  powah." 


Yes,  he  did— an'  Pher'oh's  ahmy 
Wasn't  wuth  a  ha'f  a  dime ; 

Fu'  de  Lawd  will  he'p  his  chillun, 
You  kin  trust  him  evah  time. 

An'  yo'  enemies  may  'sail  you 

In  de  back  an'  in  de  front; 
But  de  Lawd  is  all  aroun'  you, 

Fu'  to  ba'  de  battle's  brunt, 
Dey  kin  fo'ge  yo'  chains  an'  shackles 

F'om  de  mountains  to  de  sea ; 
But  de  Lawd  will  sen'  some  Moses 

Fu'  to  set  his  chillun  free. 

An'  de  Ian'  shall  hyeah  his  thundah, 

Lak  a  bias'  f  om  Gab'el's  ho'n, 
Fu'  de  Lawd  of  hosts  is  mighty 

When  he  girds  his  ahmor  on. 
But  fu'  feah  some  one  mistakes  me, 

I  will  pause  right  hyeah  to  say, 
Dat  I'm  still  a-preachin'  ancient, 

I  ain't  talkin'  'bout  to-day. 

But  I  tell  you,  fellah  christuns, 

Things  '11  happen  mighty  strange ; 
Now,  de  Lawd  done  dis  fu'  Isrul, 

An'  his  ways  don't  nevah  change, 
An'  de  love  he  showed  to  Isrul 

Wasn't  all  on  Isrul  spent ; 
Now  don't  run  an'  tell  yo'  mastahs 

Dat  I's  preachin'  discontent. 

'Cause  I  isn't ;  I'se  a-judgin* 

Bible  people  by  deir  ac's  ; 
I'se  a-givin'  you  de  Scriptuah, 

I'se  a-handin*  you  de  fac's. 
Cose  ole  Pher'oh  b'lieved  in  slav'ry, 

But  de  Lawd  he  let  him  see, 
Dat  de  people  he  put  bref  in, — 

Evah  mothah's  son  was  free. 

An'  dahs  othahs  thinks  lak  Pher'oh, 

But  dey  calls  de  Scriptuah  liar, 
Fu'  de  Bible  says  "  a  servant 

Is  a-worthy  of  his  hire." 
An'  you  cain't  git  roun'  nor  thoo  dat, 

An'  you  cain't  git  ovah  it, 
Fu'  whatevah  place  you  git  in, 

Dis  hyeah  Bible  too  '11  fit. 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


So  you  see  de  Lawd's  intention, 

Evah  sence  de  worl'  began, 
Was  dat  his  almighty  freedom 

Should  belong  to  evah  man, 
But  I  think  it  would  be  bettah, 

Ef  I'd  pause  agin  to  say, 
Dat  I'm  talkin'  'bout  ouah  freedom 

In  a  Bibleistic  way. 

But  de  Moses  is  a-comin', 

An'  he's  comin',  suah  and  fas' 
We  kin  hyeah  his  feet  a-trompin', 

We  kin  hyeah  his  trumpit  bias'. 
But  I  want  to  wa'n  you  people, 

Don't  you  git  too  brigity  ; 
An'  don't  you  git  to  braggin' 

'Bout  dese  things,  you  wait  an'  see. 

But  when  Moses  wit  his  powah 

Comes  an'  sets  us  chillun  free, 
We  will  praise  de  gracious  Mastah 

Dat  has  gin  us  liberty  ; 
An'  we'll  shout  ouah  halleluyahs, 

On  dat  mighty  reck'nin'  day, 
When  we's  reco'nized  ez  citiz' — 

Huh  uh !     Chillun,  let  us  pray  ! 

ODE  TO  ETHIOPIA 

0  Mother  Race !  to  thee  I  bring 
This  pledge  of  faith  unwavering, 

This  tribute  to  thy  glory. 

1  know  the  pangs  which  thou  didst  feel, 
When    Slavery  crushed    thee  with  its 

heel, 
With  thy  dear  blood  all  gory. 

Sad  days  were  those — ah,  sad  indeed  ! 
But  through  the  land  the  fruitful  seed 

Of  better  times  was  growing. 
The  plant  of  freedom  upward  sprung, 
And    spread    its  leaves   so   fresh   and 
young — 

Its  blossoms  now  are  blowing. 

On  every  hand  in  this  fair  land, 

Proud  Ethiope's  swarthy  children  stand 

Beside  their  fairer  neighbor ; 
The  forests  flee  before  their  stroke, 
Their     hammers     ring,     their    forges 
smoke, — 

They  stir  in  honest  labour. 


They  tread  the  fields  where  honor  calls ; 
Their  voices  sound  through  senate  halls 

In  majesty  and  power. 
To  right  they  cling  ;  the  hymns  they  sing 
Up  to  the  skies  in  beauty  ring, 

And  bolder  grow  each  hour. 

Be  proud,  my  Race,  in  mind  and  soul: 
Thy  name  is  writ  on  Glory's  scroll 

In  characters  of  fire. 
High  'mid  the  clouds  of  Fame's  bright 

sky 
Thy  banner's  blazoned  folds  now  fly, 

And  truth  shall  lift  them  higher. 

Thou  hast  the  right  to  noble  pride, 
Whose  spotless  robes  were  purified 

By  blood's  severe  baptism. 
Upon  thy  brow  the  cross  was  laid, 
And  labor's  painful  sweat-beads  made 

A  consecrating  chrism. 

No  other  race,  or  white  or  black, 
When  bound  as  thou  wert,  to  the  rack, 

So  seldom  stooped  to  grieving ; 
No  other  race,  when  free  ;  gain, 
Forgot  the  past  and  proved  them  men 

So  noble  in  forgiving. 

Go  on  and  up !     Our  souls  and  eyes 
Shall  follow  thy  continuous  rise  ; 

Our  ears  shall  list  thy  story 
From   bards  who   from  thy  root   shall 

spring, 
And  proudly  tune  their  lyres  to  sing 

Of  Ethiopia's  glory. 


THE  CORN-STALK  FIDDLE 

When   the   corn's  all  cut  and  the  bright 

stalks  shine 
Like  the  burnished  spears  of  a  field  of 

gold; 
When  the  field-mice  rich  on  the  nubbins 

dine, 
And  the  frost  comes  white  and  the  wind 

blows  cold; 
Then   it's  heigho!  fellows  and  hi-diddle- 

diddle, 
For  the   time   is  ripe  for  the  corn-stalk 

fiddle. 


146 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


And  you   take  a  stalk  that  is  straight  and 

long, 

With  an  expert  eye  to  its  worthy  points, 
And  you  think  of  the  bubbling  strains  of 

song 
That     are    bound    between    its    pithy 

joints  — 
Then  you  cut  out  strings,  with  a  bridge  in 

the  middle, 
With  a  corn-stalk   bow   for  a  corn-stalk 

fiddle. 

Then  the  strains  that  grow  as  you  draw 

the  bow 

O'er  the  yielding  strings  with  a  prac- 
ticed hand !  • 
And  the  music's  flow  never  loud  but  low 

Is  the  concert  note  of  a  fairy  band. 
Oh,  your  dainty  songs  are  a  misty  riddle 
To   the   simple   sweets  of  the  corn-stalk 
fiddle. 

When  the  eve  comes  on,  and  our  work  is 

done, 

And  the  run  drops  down  with  a  tender 
glam  e, 

With  their  hearts  all  prime  for  the  harm- 
less fun, 

Come  the  neighbor  girls  for  the  evening's 
dance, 

And  they   wait  for  the  well-known  twist 
and  twiddle  — 

More  time  than  tune — from  the  corn-stalk 
fiddle. 

Then  brother  Jabez  takes  the  bow, 

While  Ned  stands  off  with  Susan  Bland, 

Then  Henry  stops  by  Milly  Snow, 
And  John  takes  Nellie  Jones's  hand, 

While  I  pair  off  with  Mandy  Biddle, 

And  scrape,  scrape,  scrape  goes  the  corn- 
stalk fiddle. 

"  Salute  your  partners,"  comes  the  call, 

"  All  join  hands  and  circle  round," 
"  Grand  train  back,"  and  "  Balance  all," 

Footsteps  lightly  spurn  the  ground. 
"  Take   your  lady  and  balance  down  the 

middle  " 

To   the   merry   strains  of  the   corn  stalk 
fiddle. 


So  the  night  goes  on  and  the  dance  is  o'er 
And  the  merry  girls  are  homeward  gone 

But  I  see  it  all  in  my  sleep  once  more, 
And  I  dream  till  the  very  break  of  dawn 

Of  an  impish  dance  on  a  red-hot  griddle 

To  the  screech  and  scrape  of  a  corn-stalk 
fiddle. 


THE  MASTER  PLAYER 

An  old,  worn  harp  that  had  been  played 
Till  all  its  strings  were  loose  and  frayed, 
Joy,  Hate,  and  Fear,  each  one  essayed, 
To  play.     But  each  in  turn  had  found 
No  sweet  responsiveness  of  sound. 

Then  Love  the  Master-Player  came 
With  heaving  breast  and  eyes  aflame ; 
The  Harp  he  took  all  undismayed, 
Smote  on  its  strings,  still  strange  to  song, 
And  brought  forth  music  sweet  and  strong. 


THE  MYSTERY 

I  was  not ;  now  I  am — a  few  days  hence 
I  shall  not  be ;  I  fain  would  look  before 
And  after,  but  can  neither  do ;  some  Power 
Or  lack  of  power  says  "  no  "  to  all  I  would. 
I  stand  upon  a  wide  and  sunless  plain, 
Nor   chart   nor  steel   to   guide   my  steps 

aright. 

Whene'er,  o'ercoming  fear,  I  dare  to  move, 
I  grope  without  direction  and  by  chance. 
Some  feign  to  hear  a  voice  and  feel  a  hand 
That  draws  them  ever  upward  thro'  the 

gloom. 

But  I — I  hear  no  voice  and  touch  no  hand, 
Tho'  oft  thro'  silence  infinite  I  list, 
And  strain  my  hearing  to  supernal  sounds ; 
Tho'  oft  thro'  fateful  darkness  do  I  reach, 
And  stretch   my  hand   to  find  that  other 

hand. 

I  question  of  th'  eternal  bending  skies 
That  seem  to  neighbor   with  the  novice 

earth  ; 

But  they  roll  on,  and  daily  shut  their  eyes 
On  me,  as  I  one  day  shall  do  on  them, 
And  tell  me  not  the  secret  that  I  ask. 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


TWO  SONGS 

A  bee  that  was  searching  for  sweets  one 

day 

Through  the  gate  of  a  rose  garden  hap- 
pened to  stray. 

In  the  heart  of  a  rose  he  hid  away, 
And  forgot  in  his  bliss  the  light  of  day, 
As  sipping  his  honey  he  buzzed  in  song; 
Though  day  was  waning,  he  lingered  long, 
For  the  rose  was  sweet,  so  sweet. 

A  robin  sits  pluming  his  ruddy  breast, 
And  a  madrigal  sings  to  his  love  in  her 

nest: 
"  Oh,  the  skies  they  are  blue,  the  fields  are 

green, 
And  the  birds  in  your  nest  will  soon  be 

seen !  " 
She  hangs  on  his  words   with  a  thrill  of 

love, 

And  chirps  to  him  as  he  sits  above, 
For  the  song  is  sweet,  sj  sweet. 

A  maiden  was  out  on  a  summer's  day 
With  the  winds  and  the  waves  and  the 

flowers  at  play; 

And  she  met  with  a  youth  of  gentle  air, 
With  the  light  of  the  sunshine  on  his  hair. 
Together     they     wandered     the     flowers 

among; 

They  loved,  and  loving  they  lingered  long, 
For  to  love  is  sweet,  so  sweet. 


Bird  of  my  lady's  bower, 

Sing  her  a  song; 
Tell  her  that  every  hour, 

All  the  day  long, 
Thoughts  of  her  come  to  me, 

Filling  my  brain 
With  the  warm  ecstasy 

Of  love's  refrain. 

Little  bird  !  happy  bird  ! 

Being  so  near, 
Where  e'en  her  slightest  word 

Thou  mayest  hear, 
Seeing  her  glancing  eyes, 

Sheen  of  her  hair, 


Thou  art  in  paradise, — 
Would  I  were  there. 

I  am  so  far  away, 

Thou  art  so  near ; 
Plead  with  her,  birdling  gay, 

Plead  with  my  dear. 
Rich  be  thy  recompense, 

Fine  be  thy  fee, 
If  through  thine  eloquence 

She  hearken  me. 


THE  PATH 

There  are  no  beaten  paths  to  Glory's 
height, 

There  are  no  rules  to  compass  greatness 
known ; 

Each  for  himself  must  cleave  a  path  alone, 

And  press  his  own  way  forward  in  the 
fight. 

Smooth  is  the  way  to  ease  and  calm  de- 
light, 

And  soft  the  road  Sloth  chooseth  for  her 
own ; 

But  he  who  craves  the  flower  of  life  full- 
blown, 

Must  struggle  up  in  all  his  armor  dight ! 

What  though  the  burden  bear  him  sorely 
down 

And  crush  to  dust  the  mountain  of  his 
pride, 

Oh,  then,  with  strong  heart  let  him  still 
abide ; 

For  rugged  is  the  roadway  to  renown, 

Nor  may  he  hope  to  gain  the  envied 
crown 

Till  he  hath  thrust  the  looming  rocks 
aside. 


THE  LAWYER'S  WAYS 

This  poem,  written  in  the  earlier  years 
of  Paul  Laurence  Dunbar's  life  is  doubt- 
less the  fruit  of  his  observations  when  a 
page  in  the  Dayton  court-house,  and  the 
discoveries  that  it  shows  he  made  even  in 
his  youth  of  the  instability  of  the  law, 
may  have  been  one  reason  why  he  gave 
up  his  chances  and  his  ambitions  to  be- 


148 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


come  a  lawyer,  preferring  to   be   a   poet 
and  an  inspiration  for  his  race. 


I've  been  list'nin'  to  them  lawyers 

In  the  court  house  up  the  street, 
An'  I've  come  to  the  conclusion 

That  I'm  most  completely  beat. 
Fust  one  feller  riz  to  argy, 

An*  he  boldly  waded  in 
As  he  dressed  the  tremblin'  pris'ner 

In  a  coat  o'  deep-dyed  sin. 

Why,  he  painted  him  all  over 

In  a  hue  o'  blackest  crime, 
An'  he  smeared  his  reputation 

With  the  thickest  kind  o'  grime, 
Tell  I  found  myself  a-wond'rin', 

In  a  misty  way  and  dim, 
How  the  Lord  had  come  to  fashion 

Sich  an  awful  man  as  him. 


Then  the  other  lawyer  started, 

An',  with  brimmin',  tearful  eyes, 
Said  his  client  was  a  martyr 

That  was  brought  to  sacrifice. 
An'  he  give  to  that  same  pris'ner 

Every  blessed  human  grace, 
Tell  I  saw  the  light  o'  virtue 

Fairly  shinin'  from  his  face. 

Then  I  own  'at  I  was  puzzled 

How  sich  things  could  rightly  be  ; 
An'  this  aggervatin'  question 

Seems  to  keep  a-puzzlin'  me. 
So,  will  some  one  please  inform  me, 

An'  this  mystery  unroll  — 
How  an  angel  an'  a  devil 

Can  persess  the  self-same  soul  ? 


LONGING 

If  you  could  sit  with  me  beside  the  sea  to- 
day, 

And  whisper  with  me  sweetest  dreamings 
o'er  and  o'er ; 

I  think  I  should  not  find  the  clouds  so  dim 
and  gray, 

And  not  so  loud  the  waves  complaining  at 
the  shore. 


If  you  could  sit  with  me  upon  the  shore 
to-day, 

And  hold  my  hand  in  yours  as  in  the  days 
of  old, 

I  think  I  should  not  mind  the  chill  baptis- 
mal spray, 

Nor  find  my  hand  and  heart  and  all  the 
world  so  cold. 


If  you  could  walk  with  me  upon  the  strand 

to-day, 
And  tell  me  that  my  longing  love  had  won 

your  own, 
I  think  all  my  sad  thoughts  would  then  be 

put  away, 
And  I  could  give  back  laughter  for  the 

Ocean's  moan ! 


A  BANJO  SONG 

Oh,  dere's  lots  o'  keer  an'  trouble 

In  dis  world  to  swaller  down ; 
An'  oP  Sorrer's  purty  lively 

In  her  way  o'  gittin'  roun*. 
Yet  dere's  times  when  I  furgit  'em,— 

Aches  an'  pains  an'  troubles  all, — 
An'  it's  when  I  tek  at  ebenin' 

My  oP  banjo  f 'om  de  wall. 


'Bout  de  time  dat  night  is  fallin' 

An'  my  daily  wu'k  is  done, 
An'  above  de  shady  hilltops 

I  kin  see  de  settin'  sun ; 
When  de  quiet,  restful  shadders- 

Is  beginnin'  jes'  to  fall, — 
Den  I  take  de  little  banjo 

F'om  its  place  upon  de  wall. 


Den  my  fam'ly  gadders  roun'  me 

In  de  fadin'  o'  de  light, 
Ez  I  strike  de  strings  to  try  'em 

Ef  dey  all  is  tuned  er-right. 
An'  it  seems  we're  so  nigh  heaben 

We  kin  hyeah  de  angels  sing 
When  de  music  o'  dat  banjo 

Sets  my  cabin  all  er-ring. 


OH,  DERE'S  LOTS  o'  KEER  AN'  TROUBLE 


MALE  AN'  FEMALE,  SMALL  AN'  Bi< 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


15* 


An'  my  wife  an'  all  de  othahs, — 

Male  an'  female,  small  an'  big, — 
Even  up  to  gray-haired  granny, 

Seem  jes'  boun'  to  do  a  jig ; 
'Twell  I  change  de  style  o'  music, 

Change  de  movement  an'  de  time, 
An'  de  ringin'  little  banjo 

Plays  an  ol'  hea't-feelin'  hime. 

An'  somehow  my  th'oat  gits  choky, 

An'  a  lump  keeps  tryin'  to  rise 
Lak  it  wan'ed  to  ketch  de  water 

Dat  was  flowin'  to  my  eyes ; 
An'  I  feel  dat  I  could  sorter 

Knock  de  socks  clean  off  o'  sin 
Ez  I  hyeah  my  po'  ol'  granny 

Wif  huh  tremblin'  voice  jine  in. 

Den  we  all  th'ow  in  our  voices 

Fu'  to  he'p  de  chune  out  too, 
Lak  a  big  camp-meetin'  choiry 

Tryin'  to  sing  a  mou'nah  tb'oo. 
An'  our  th'oahts  let  out  de  music, 

Sweet  an'  solemn,  loud  an'  free, 
'Twell  de  raftahs  o'  my  cabin 

Echo  wif  de  melody. 

Oh,  de  music  o'  de  banjo, 

Quick  an'  deb'lish,  solemn,  slow, 
Is  de  greates'  joy  an'  solace 

Dat  a  weary  slave  kin  know  ! 
So  jes'  let  me  hyeah  it  ringin', 

Dough  de  chune  be  po'  an'  rough, 
It's  a  pleasure ;  an'  de  pleasures 

O'  dis  life  is  few  enough. 

Now,  de  blessed  little  angels 

Up  in  heaben,  we  are  told, 
Don't  do  nothin'  all  dere  lifetime 

'Ceptin'  play  on  ha'ps  o'  gold. 
Now  I  think  heaben  'd  be  mo*  home- 
like 

Ef  we'd  hyeah  some  music  fall 
F'om  a  real  ol'-fashioned  banjo, 

Like  dat  one  upon  de  wall. 

NOT  THEY  WHO  SOAR 

Not  they  who  soar,  but  they  who  plod 
Their  rugged  way,  unhelped,  to  God 
Are  heroes ;  they  who  higher  fare, 
And,  flying,  fan  the  upper  air, 


Miss  all  the  toil  that  hugs  the  sod. 
'Tis  they  whose  backs  have  felt  the  rod, 
Whose  feet  have  pressed  the  path  unshod, 
May  smile  upon  defeated  care, 
Not  they  who  soar. 

High  up  there  are  no  thorns  to  prod, 
Nor  boulders  lurking  'neath  the  clod 
To  turn  the  keenness  of  the  share, 
For  flight  is  ever  free  and  rare ; 
But  heroes  they  the  soil  who've  trod, 
Not  they  who  soar ! 

WHITTIER 

Not  o'er  thy  dust  let  there  be  spent 
The  gush  of  maudlin  sentiment ; 
Such  drift  as  that  is  not  for  thee, 
Whose  life  and  deeds  and  songs  agree, 
Sublime  in  their  simplicity. 

Nor  shall  the  sorrowing  tear  be  shed. 
O  singer  sweet,  thou  art  not  dead ! 
In  spite  of  time's  malignant  chill, 
With  living  fire  thy  songs  shall  thrill, 
And  men  shall  say,  «  He  liveth  still  1 " 

Great  poets  never  die,  for  Earth 
Doth  count  their  lives  of  too  great  worth 
To  lose  them  from  her  treasured  store; 
So  shalt  thou  live  for  evermore  — 
Though  far  thy  form  from  mortal  ken  — 
Deep  in  the  hearts  and  minds  of  men. 

ODE  FOR  MEMORIAL  DAY 

Done   are  the   toils  and   the   wearisome 

marches, 
Done    is   the    summons  of  bugle  and 

drum. 

Softly  and  sweetly  the  sky  overarches, 
Shelt'ring   a   land  where   Rebellion  is 

dumb. 

Dark  were  the  days  of  the  country's  de- 
rangement, 
Sad  were  the  hours  when  the  conflict 

was  on, 

But   through   the   gloom  of  fraternal  es- 
trangement 
God  sent  his  light,  and  we  welcome  the 

dawn. 
O'er  the  expanse  of  our  mighty  dominions, 


152 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


Sweeping  away  to  the  uttermost  parts, 
Peace,  the  wide-flying,  on   untiring  pin- 
ions, 

Bringeth    her   message    of  joy  to   our 
hearts. 

Ah,  but  this  joy  which  our  minds  cannot 

measure, 

What  did  it  cost  for  our  fathers  to  gain ! 
Bought  at  the  price  of  the  heart's  dearest 

treasure, 

Born  out  of  travail  and  sorrow  and  pain ; 
Born  in  the  battle  where  fleet  Death  was 

flying, 
Slaying  with   sabre-stroke   bloody  and 

fell; 
Born  where  the  heroes  and  martyrs  were 

dying, 

Torn  by  the  fury  of  bullet  and  shell. 
Ah,  but  the  day  is  past :  silent  the  rattle, 
And    the   confusion   that   followed   the 

fight. 

Peace  to  the  heroes  who  died  in  the  battle, 
Martyrs  to  truth  and  the  crowning  of 
Right ! 

Out  of  the  blood  of  a  conflict  fraternal, 

Out  of  the  dust  and  the  dimness  of  death, 
Burst  into  blossoms  of  glory  eternal 

Flowers   that   sweeten    the  world  with 

.their  breath. 

Flowers  of  charity,  peace,  and  devotion 
Bloom  in  the  hearts  that  are  empty  of 

strife ; 
Love  that  is  boundless  and  broad  as  the 

ocean 

Leaps  into  beau  y  and  fulness  of  life. 
So,  with  the  singing  of  paeans  and  chorals, 
And  with  the  flag  flashing  high  in  the 

sun, 
Place   on   the   graves  of  our  heroes  the 

laurels 
Which  their  unfaltering  valor  has  won ! 


PREMONITION 

Dear  heart,  good-night ! 
Nay,  list  awhile  that  sweet  voice  singing 

When  the  world  is  all  so  bright, 
And    the   sound   of  song   sets   the   heart 
a-ringing, 


Oh,  love,  it  is  not  right  — 

Not  then  to  say,  "  Good-night." 

Dear  heart,  good-night ! 
The  late  winds  in  the  lake  weeds  shiver, 

And  the  spray  flies  cold  and  white. 
And  the  voice  that  sings  gives  a  telltale 

quiver  — 
"  Ah,  yes,  the  world  is  bright, 

But,  dearest  heart,  good-night !  " 

Dear  heart,  good-night ! 
And  do  not  longer  seek  to  hold  me  ! 

For  my  soul  is  in  affright 
As  the  fearful  glooms  in  their  pall  enfold 

me. 
See  him  who  sang  how  white 

And  still ;  so,  dear,  good-night. 

Dear  heart,  good-night ! 
Thy  hand  I'll  press  no  more  forever, 
And  mine  eyes  shall  lose  the  light ; 
For  the  great  white  wraith  by  the  winding 

river 
Shall  check  my  steps  with  might. 

So,  dear,  good-night,  good-night ! 

RETROSPECTION 

When  you  and  I  were  young,  the  days 
Were  filled  with  scent  of  pink  and  rose, 
And  full  of  joy  from  dawn  till  close, 

From  morning's  mist  till  evening's  haze. 
And  when  the  robin  sung  his  song 
The  verdant  woodland  ways  along, 
We  whistled  louder  than  he  sung. 

And  school  was  joy,  and  work  was  sport 

For  which  the  hours  were  all  too  short, 
When  you  and  I  were  young,  my  boy, 
When  you  and  I  were  young. 

When  you  and  I  were  young,  the  woods 
Brimmed  bravely  o'er  with  every  joy 
To  charm  the  happy-hearted  boy. 

The  quail  turned  out  her  timid  broods ; 
The  prickly  copse,  a  hostess  fine, 
Held  high  black  cups  of  harmless  wine; 
And  low  the  laden  grape-vine  swung 

With  beads  of  night-kissed  amethyst 

Where  buzzing  lovers  held  their  tryst, 
When  you  and  I  were  young,  my  boy, 
When  you  and  I  were  young. 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


153 


When  you  and  I  were  young,  the  cool 
And    fresh    wind    fanned    our    fevered 

brows 

When  tumbling  o'er  the  seer  ted  mows, 
Or  stripping  by  the  dimpling  pool. 

Sedge-fringed  about  its  shimmering  face, 

Save  where  we'd  worn  an  ent'ring  place. 

How  with  our  shouts  the  calm  banks 

rung! 

How  flashed  the  spray  as  we  plunged  in, — 
Pure  gems  that  never  caused  a  sin ! 
When  you  and  I  were  young,  my  boy, 
When  you  and  I  were  young. 

When  you  and  I  were  young,  we  heard 
All  sounds  of  Nature  with  delight,— 
The  whirr  of  wing  in  sudden  flight, 

The  chirping  of  the  baby-bird. 

The  columbine's  red  bells  were  rung ; 
The  locust's  vested  chorus  sung ; 
While  every  wind  his  zithern  strung 

To  high  and  holy-sounding  keys, 

And  played  sonatas  in  the  trees  — 

When  you  and  I  were  young,  my  boy, 
When  you  and  I  were  young. 

When  you  and  I  were  young,  we  knew 
To  shout  and  laugh,  to  work  and  play, 
And  night  was  partner  to  the  day 
In  all  our  joys.     So  swift  time  flew 
On  silent  wings  that,  ere  we  wist, 
The  fleeting  years  had  fled  unmissed  ; 
And    from    our   hearts   this   cry  was 

wrung  — 

To  fill  with  fond  regret  and  tears 
The  days  of  our  remaining  years  — 

"  When  you  and  I  were  young,  my  boy, 
When  you  and  I  were  young." 

UNEXPRESSED 

Deep  in  my  heart  that  aches  with  the  re- 
pression, 

And  strives  with  plenitude  of  bitter  pain, 
There  lives  a  thought  that  clamors  for  ex- 
pression, 
And  spends  its  undelivered  force  in  vain. 

What  boots  it  that  some  other  may  have 
thought  it  ? 


The    right   of  thoughts'   expression   is 

divine ; 

The  price  of  pain  I  pay  for  it  has  bought  it, 
I   care   not  who  lays  claim  to  it — 'tis 

mine ! 

And  yet  not  mine  until  it  be  delivered ; 
The  manner  of  its  birth  shall  prove  the 

test. 

Alas,  alas,  my  rock  of  pride  is  shivered  — 
I  beat  my  brow — the  thought  still  unex- 
pressed. 

SPRING  SONG 

A  blue-bell  springs  upon  the  ledge, 
A  lark  sits  singing  in  the  hedge ; 
Sweet  perfumes  scent  the  balmy  air, 
And  life  is  brimming  everywhere. 
What  lark  and  breeze  and  bluebird  sing, 
Is  Spring,  Spring,  Spring  ! 

Nor  more  the  air  is  sharp  and  cold ; 
The  planter  wends  across  the  wold, 
And,  glad,  beneath  the  shining  sky 
We  wander  forth,  my  love  and  I. 
And  ever  in  our  hearts  doth  ring 
This  song  of  Spring,  Spring ! 

For  life  is  life  and  love  is  love, 
'Twixt  maid  and  man  or  dove  and  dove. 
Life  may  be  short,  life  may  be  long, 
But  love  will  come,  and  to  its  song 
Shall  this  refrain  forever  cling 
Of  Spring,  Spring,  Spring ! 

SONG  OF  SUMMER 

Dis  is  gospel  weathah  sho' — 

Hills  is  sawt  o'  hazy. 
Meddahs  level  ez  a  flo' 

Callin'  to  de  lazy. 
Sky  all  white  wif  streaks  o'  blue, 

Sunshine  softly  gleamin', 
D'ain't  no  wuk  hit's  right  to  do, 

Nothin'  's  right  but  dreamin'. 

Dreamin'  by  de  rivah  side 

Wif  de  watahs  glist'nin', 
Feelin*  good  an'  satisfied 

Ez  you  lay  a-list'nin* 


154 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


To  the  little  nakid  boys 

Splashin'  in  de  watah, 
Hollerin'  fu'  to  spress  deir  joys 

Jes'  lak  youngsters  ought  to. 

Squir'l  a-tippin'  on  his  toes, 

So's  to  hide  an'  view  you ; 
Whole  flocks  o'  camp-meetin'  crows 

Shoutin'  hallelujah. 
Peckahwood  erpon  de  tree 

Tappin'  lak  a  hammah ; 
Jaybird  chattin'  wif  a  bee, 

Tryin'  to  teach  him  grammah. 

Breeze  is  blowin'  wif  perfume, 

Jes'  enough  to  tease  you ; 
Hollyhocks  is  all  in  bloom, 

Smellin'  fu'  to  please  you. 
Go  'way,  folks,  an'  let  me  'lone, 

Times  is  gettin'  dearah  — 
Summah's  settin'  on  de  th'one, 

An'  I'm  a-layin'  neah  huh ! 


TO  LOUISE 

When  Paul  Laurence  Dunbar,  young 
and  full  of  timidity,  was  trying  to  sell  his 
little  book  "  Majors  &  Minors-,"  from  house 
to  house,  he  sometimes  became  greatly 
discouraged.  Upon  the  evening  of  a  par- 
ticularly disheartening  day,  he  went  to 
the  home  of  his  patron,  Dr.  H.  A.  Tobey, 
in  Toledo,  Ohio,  and  told  him  that  he 
would  never  again  have  the  courage  to 
offer  a  book  for  sale  to  any  man.  His 
friend  endeavored  to  encourage  him,  but 
he  was  despondent,  and  left  the  doctor 
with  tears  streaming  down  his  cheeks. 
Just  as  poor  Dunbar  was  leaving,  the  little 
daughter  of  his  host,  Miss  Louise  Tobey,  ran 
to  him  and  in  the  sweet,  half-bashful  way 
of  a  child,  gave  him  a  beautiful  rose.  The 
next  morning,  the  young  poet  sought  the 
"  wee  lassie,"  and  handed  her  a  bit  of 
paper.  Upon  this  sheet  was  written  one 
of  the  most  perfect  of  his  poems — "  Lines 
to  Louise." 

Oh,  the   poets  may  sing  of  their  Lady 
Irenes, 


And  may  rave  in  their  rhymes  about  won- 
derful queens ; 

But  I  throw  my  poetical  wings  to  the 
bree.-e, 

And  soar  in  a  song  to  my  Lady  Louise. 

A  sweet  little  maid,  who  is  dearer,  I  ween, 

Than  any  fair  duchess,  or  even  a  queen. 

When  speaking  of  her  I  can't  plod  in  my 
prose, 

For  she's  the  wee  lassie  who  gave  me  a 
rose. 

Since    poets,    from    seeing    a  lady's   lip 

curled, 
Have  written  fair  verse  that  has  sweetened 

the  world ; 
Why,  then,  should  not  I  give  the  space  of 

an  hour 

To  making  a  song  in  return  for  a  flower  ? 
I  have  found  in  my  life — it  has  not  been 

so  long  — 
There  are  too  few  of  flowers — too  little  of 

song. 
So  out  of  that  blossom,  this  lay  of  mine 

grows, 
For  the  dear  little  lady  who  gave  me  the 

rose. 

I  thank  God  for  innocence,  dearer  than 

Art, 
That  lights  on  a  by-way  which  leads  to 

the  heart, 

And  led  by  an  impulse  no  less  than  divine, 
Walks   into   the   temple   and  sits   at  the 

shrine. 
I  would  rather  pluck  daisies  that  grow  in 

the  wild, 
Or  take  one  simple  rose  from  the  hand  of 

a  child, 
Than   to   breathe   the   rich   fragrance   of 

flowers  that  bide 
In   the   gardens  of  luxury,  passion,   and 

pride. 

I  know  not,  my  wee  one,  how  came  you  to 

know 
Which  way  to  my  heart  was  the  right  way 

to  go ; 

Unless  in  your  purity,  soul-clean  and  clear, 
God  whispers  his  messages  into  your  ear. 
You  have  now  had  my  song,  let  me  end 

with  a  prayer 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


155 


That    your    life    may    be    always  sweet, 

happy,  and  fair ; 
That  your  joys  may  be  many,  and  absent 

your  woes, 
O  dear  little  lady  who  gave  me  the  rose ! 

THE  RIVALS 

'Twas  three  an'  thirty  year  ago 

When  I  was  ruther  young,  you  know, 

I  had  my  last  an'  only  fight 

About  a  gal  one  summer  night. 

'Twas  me  an'  Zekel  Johnson ;  Zeke    < 

'N'  me'd  be'n  spattin'  'bout  a  week, 

Each  of  us  tryin'  his  best  to  show 

That  he  was  Liza  Jones's  beau. 

We  couldn't  neither  prove  the  thing, 

Fur  she  was  fur  too  sharp  to  fling 

One  over  fur  the  other  one 

An'  by  so  doin'  stop  the  fun 

That  we  chaps  didn't  have  the  sense 

To  see  she  got  at  our  expense, 

But  that's  the  way  a  feller  does, 

Fur  boys  is  fools  an'  allus  was. 

An'  when  they's  females  in  the  game 

I  reckon  men's  about  the  same. 

Well,  Zeke  an'  me  went  on  that  way 

An'  fussed  an'  quarreled  day  by  day ; 

While  Liza,  mindin'  not  the  fuss, 

Jest  kep'  a-goin'  with  both  of  us, 

Tell  we  pore  chaps,  that's  Zeke  an'  me, 

Was  jest  plum  mad  with  jealousy. 

Well,  fur  a  time  we  kep'  our  places, 

An'  only  showed  by  frownin'  faces 

An'  looks  'at  well  our  meanin'  boded 

How  full  o'  fight  we  both  was  loaded. 

At  last  it  come,  the  thing  broke  out, 

An'  this  is  how  it  come  about. 

One  night  ('twas  fair,  you'll  all  agree) 

I  got  Eliza's  company, 

An'  leavin'  Zekel  in  the  lurch, 

Went  trottin'  off  with  her  to  church. 

An'  jest  as  we  had  took  our  seat 

(Eliza  lookin'  fair  an'  sweet), 

Why,  I  jest  couldn't  help  but  grin 

When  Zekel  come  a  bouncin'  in 

As  furious  as  the  law  allows. 

He'd  jest  be'n  up  to  Liza's  house, 

To  find  her  gone,  then  come  to  church 

To  have  this  end  put  to  his  search. 

I  guess  I  laffed  that  meetin'  through, 


An*  not  a  mortal  word  I  knew 

Of  what  the  preacher  preached  er  read 

Er  what  the  choir  sung  er  said. 

Fur  every  time  I'd  turn  my  head 

I  couldn't  skeercely  help  but  see 

'At  Zekel  had  his  eye  on  me. 

An'  he  'ud  sort  o'  turn  an'  twist 

An'  grind  his  teeth  an'  shake  his  fist. 

I  laughed,  fur  la !  the  hull  church  seen 

us, 

An'  knowed  that  suthin'  was  between  us. 
Well,  meetin'  out,  we  started  hum, 
I  sorter  feelin'  what  would  come. 
We'd  jest  got  out,  when  up  stepped  Zeke, 
An'  said,  "  Scuse  me,  I'd  like  to  speak 
To  you  a  minute."     "  Cert,"  said  I  — 
A-nudgin'  Liza  on  the  sly 
An'  laughin'  in  my  sleeve  with  glee, 
I  asked  her,  please,  to  pardon  me. 
We  walked  away  a  step  er  two, 
Jest  to  git  out  o'  Liza's  view, 
An'  then  Zeke  said,  "  I  want  to  know 
Ef  you  think  you're  Eliza's  beau, 
An'  'at  I'm  goin'  to  let  her  go 
Hum  with  sich  a  chap  as  you  ?  " 
An'  I  said  bold,  «  You  bet  I  do." 
Then  Zekel,  sneerin',  said  'at  he 
Didn't  want  to  hender  me. 
But  then  he  'lowed  the  gal  was  his 
An'  'at  he  guessed  he  knowed  his  biz, 
An'  wasn't  feared  o'  all  my  kin 
With  all  my  friends  an'  chums  throwed 

in. 

Some  other  things  he  mentioned  there 
That  no  born  man  could  noways  bear 
Er  think  o'  ca'mly  tryin'  to  stan' 
Ef  Zeke  had  be'n  the  bigges'  man 
In  town,  an'  not  the  leanest  runt 
'At  time  an'  labor  ever  stunt. 
An'  so  I  let  my  fist  go  "  bim," 
I  thought  I'd  mos'  nigh  finished  him. 
But  Zekel  didn't  take  it  so. 
He  jest  ducked  down  an'  dodged  my 

blow 

An'  then  come  back  at  me  so  hard, 
I  guess  I  must  'a'  hurt  the  yard, 
Er  spilet  the  grass  plot  where  I  fell, 
An'  sakes  alive  it  hurt  me  ;  well, 
It  wouldn't  be'n  so  bad,  you  see, 
But  he  jest  kep'  a-hittin'  me. 
An'  I  hit  back  an'  kicked  an'  pawed, 


156 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


But  't  seemed  'twas  mostly  air  I  clawed, 
While  Zekel  used  his  science  well 
A-makin'  every  motion  tell. 
He    punched   an'   hit,  why,   goodness 

lands, 

Seemed  like  he  had  a  dozen  hands. 
Well,  afterwhile  they  stopped  the  fuss, 
An'  some  one  kindly  parted  us. 
All    beat    an'    cuffed    an'    clawed   an' 

scratched, 

An'  needin'  both  our  faces  patched, 
Each  started  hum  a  different  way ; 
An'  what  o'  Liza,  do  you  say, 
Why,  Liza — little  humbug — dern  her, 
Why,    she'd    gone    home  with   Hiram 

Turner. 


THE  LOVER  AND  THE  MOON 

A  lover  whom  duty  called  over  the  wave, 
With   himself  communed :    "  Will    my 

love  be  true 

If  left  to  herself?    Had  I  better  not  sue 
Some  friend  to  watch  over  her,  good  and 

grave  ? 
But  my  friend  might  fail  in  my  need," 

he  said, 

"  And  I  return  to  find  love  dead. 
Since  friendships  fade  like  the  flow'rs  of 

June, 
I  will  leave  her  in  charge  of  the  stable 


Then  he  said  to  the  moon :  "  O  dear  old 

moon, 
Who  for  years  and  years  from  thy  throne 

above 
Hast  nurtured  and  guarded  young  lovers 

and  love, 

My  heart  has  but  come  to  its  waiting  June, 
And  the  promise  time  of  the  budding 

vine ; 

Oh,  guard  thee  well  this  love  of  mine." 
And  he  harked  him  then  while  all  was 

still, 
And  the  pale  moon  answered  and  said, 

«  I  will." 


And  he  sailed  in  his  ship  o'er  many  seas, 
And  he  wandered  wide  o'er  strange  far 
strands  : 


In  isles  of  the  south  and  in  Orient  lands, 
Where  pestilence  lurks  in  the  breath  of  the 

breeze. 
But  his  star  was  high,  so  he  braved  the 

main, 

And  sailed  him  blithely  home  again ; 
And  with  joy  he  bended  his  footsteps 

soon 
To  learn  of  his  love  from  the  matron 

moon. 

She  sat  as  of  yore,  in  her  olden  place, 
Serene  as  death,  in  her  silver  chair. 
A  white  rose  gleamed  in  her  whiter  hair, 

And  the  tint  of  a  blush  was  on  her  face. 
At  sight  of  the  youth  she  sadly  bowed 
And  hid  her  face  'neath  a  gracious  cloud. 
She    faltered   faint  on  the  night's  dim 

marge, 

But  "  How,"  spoke  the  youth,  "  have 
you  kept  your  charge  ?  " 

The  moon  was  sad  at  a  trust  ill-kept ; 
The  blush  went  out  in  her   blanching 

cheek, 
And  her  voice  was  timid  and  low  and 

weak, 
As  she  made  her  plea   and   sighed    and 

wept. 

"  Oh,  another  prayed  and  another  plead, 
And  I  couldn't  resist,"  she  answering 

said ; 
"  But  love  still  grows  in  the  hearts  of 

men  : 
Go  forth,  dear  youth,  and  love  again," 

But  he  turned  him  away  from  her  proffered 
grace. 

"  Thou  art  false,  O  moon,  as  the  hearts 
of  men, 

I  will  not,  will  not  love  again." 
And  he  turned  sheer  'round  with  a  soul- 
sick  face 

To  the  sea,  and  cried  :  "  Sea,  curse  the 
moon, 

Who   makes   her  vows  and  forgets  so 
soon." 

And  the  awful  sea  with  anger  stirred, 

And  his  breast  heaved  hard  as  he  lay 
and  heard. 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


157 


And  ever  tha  moon  wept  down  in  rain, 

And  ever  her  sighs  rose  high  in  wind ; 

But  the   earth  and  sea  were  deaf  and 

blind, 

And   she  wept  and  sighed  her  griefs  in 
vain. 

And  ever  at  night,  when  the  storm  is 
fierce, 

The  cries  of  a  wraith  through  the  thun- 
ders pierce ; 

And  the  waves  strain  their  awful  hands 
on  high 

To  tear  the  false  moon  from  the  sky. 

CONSCIENCE  AND  REMORSE 

"  Good-bye,"  I  said  to  my  conscience  — 

"  Good-bye  for  aye  and  aye," 
And  I  put  her  hands  off  harshly, 

And  turned  my  face  away ; 
And  conscience  smitten  sorely 

Returned  not  from  that  day. 

But  a  time  came  when  my  spirit 

Grew  weary  of  its  pace  ; 
And  I  cried  :  "  Come  back,  my  conscience  ; 

I  long  to  see  thy  face." 
But  conscience  cried  :  "I  cannot; 

Remorse  sits  in  my  place." 

IONE 

I 

Ah,  yes,  'tis  sweet  still  to  remember, 
Though  'twere  less  painful  to  forget ; 

For  while  my  heart  glows  like  an  ember, 
Mine  eyes  with  sorrow's  drops  are  wet, 
And,  oh,  my  heart  is  aching  yet. 

It  is  a  law  of  mortal  pain 

That  old  wounds,  long  accounted  well, 
Beneath  the  memory's  potent  spell, 

Will  wake  to  life  and  bleed  again. 

So  'tis  with  me  ;  it  might  be  better 
If  I  should  turn  no  look  behind, — 

If  I  could  curb  my  heart,  and  fetter 
From  reminiscent  gaze  my  mind, 
Or  let  my  soul  go  blind — go  blind  ! 

But  would  I  do  it  if  I  could  ? 

Nay !  ease  at  such  a  price  were  spurned ; 
For,  since  my  love  was  once  returned, 

All  that  I  suffer  seemeth  good. 


I  know,  I  know  it  is  the  fashion, 

When  love  has  left  some  heart  distressed, 
To  weight  the  air  with  wordful  passion  ! 

But  I  am  glad  that  in  my  breast 

I  ever  held  so  dear  a  guest. 
Love  does  not  come  at  every  nod, 

Or  every  voice  that  calleth  "  hasten  "  ; 

He  seeketh  out  some  heart  to  chasten, 
And  whips  it,  wailing,  up  to  God  ! 

Love  is  no  random  road  wayfarer 

Who  where  he  may  must  sip  his  glass. 

Love  is  the  King,  the  Purple-Wearer, 
Whose  guard  recks  not  of  tree  or  grass 
To  blaze  the  way  that  he  may  pass. 

What  if  my  heart  be  in  the  blast 
That  heralds  his  triumphant  way  ; 
Shall  I  repine,  shall  I  not  say : 

"  Rejoice,  my  heart,,  the  King  has  passed  !  " 

In  life,  each  heart  holds  some  sad  story  — 

The  saddest  ones  are  never  told. 
I,  too,  have  dreamed  of  fame  and  glory, 

And  viewed  the  future  bright  with  gold  ; 

But  that  is  ar  a  tale  long  told. 
Mine  eyes  hav    lost  their  youthful  flash, 

My  cunning  nand  has  lost  its  art ; 

I  am  not  old,  but  in  my  heart 
The  ember  lies  beneath  the  ash. 


I    loved !      Why   not  ?     My    heart    was 
youthful, 

My  mind  was  filled  with  healthy  thought. 
He  doubts  not  whose  own  self  is  truthful, 

Doubt  by  dishonesty  is  taught ; 

So  loved  I  boldly,  fearing  naught. 
I  did  not  walk  this  lowly  earth  ; 

Mine  was  a  newer,  higher  sphere, 

WThere  youth  was  long  and  life  was  dear, 
And  all  save  love  was  little  worth. 

Her  likeness  !  Would  that  I  might  limn  it, 
As  Love  did,  with  enduring  art ; 

Nor  dust  of  days  nor  death  may  dim  it, 
Where  it  lies  graven  on  my  heart, 
Of  this  sad  fabric  of  my  life  a  part. 

I  would  that  I  might  paint  her  now 
As  I  beheld  her  in  that  day, 
Ere  her  first  bloom  had  passed  away, 

And  left  the  lines  upon  her  brow. 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


A  face  serene  that,  beaming  brightly, 
Disarmed  the  hot  sun's  glances  bold. 

A  foot  that  kissed  the  ground  so  lightly, 
He  frowned  in  wrath  and  deemed  her 

cold, 
But  loved  her  still  though  he  was  old. 

A  form  where  every  maiden  grace 

Bloomed  to  perfection's  richest  flower, — 
The  statued  pose  of  conscious  power, 

Like  lithe-limbed  Dian's  of  the  chase. 

Beneath  a  brow  too  fair  for  frowning, 
Like  moonlit  deeps  that  glass  the  skies 

Till  all  the  hosts  above  seem  drowning, 
Looked  forth  her  steadfast  hazel  eyes, 
With  gaze  serene  and  purely  wise. 

And  over  all,  her  tresses  rare, 

Which,  when,  with  his  desire   grown 

weak, 
The  Night  bent  down  to  kiss  her  cheek, 

Entrapped  and  held  him  captive  there. 

This  was  lone  ;  a  spirit  finer 

Ne'er  burned  to  ash  its  house  of  clay ; 
A  soul  instinct  with  fire  diviner 

Ne'er  fled  athwart  the  face  of  day, 

And  tempted  Time  with  earthly  stay. 
Her  loveliness  was  not  alone 

Of  face  and  form  and  tresses'  hue ; 

For  aye  a  pure,  high  soul  shone  through 
Her  every  act :  this  was  lone. 

II 

'Twas  in  the  radiant  summer  weather, 
When   God  looked,  smiling,  from   the 
sky; 

And  we  went  wand'ring  much  together 
By  wood  and  lane,  lone  and  I, 
Attracted  by  the  subtle  tie 

Of  common  thoughts  and  common  tastes, 
Of  eyes  whose  vision  saw  the  same, 
And  freely  granted  beauty's  claim 

Where  others  found  but  worthless  wastes. 

We  paused  to  hear  the  far  bells  ringing 
Across  the  distance,  sweet  and  clear. 

We  listened  to  the  wild  bird's  singing 
The  song  he  meant  for  his  mate's  ear, 
And  deemed  our  chance  to  do  so  dear 

We  loved  to  watch  the  warrior  Sun, 


With  flaming  shield  and  flaunting  crest, 
Go  striding  down  the  gory  West, 
When  Day's  long  fight  was  fought  and 


And  life  became  a  different  story  ; 

Where'er  I  looked,  I  saw  new  light. 
Earth's  self  assumed  a  greater  glory, 

Mine  eyes  were  cleared  to  fuller  sight. 

Then  first  I  saw  the  need  and  might 
Of  that  fair  band,  the  singing  throng, 

Who,  gifted  with  the  skill  divine, 

Take  up  the  threads  of  life,  spun  fine, 
And  weave  them  into  soulful  song. 

They  sung  for  me,  whose  passion  pressing 
My  soul,  found  vent  in  song  nor  line. 

They  bore  the  burden  of  expressing 
All  that  I  felt,  with  art's  design, 
And  every  word  of  theirs  was  mine. 

I  read  them  to  lone,  ofttimes, 

By  hill  and  shore,  beneath  fair  skies, 
And  she  looked  deeply  in  mine  eyes, 

And  knew  my  love  spoke  through  their 
rhymes. 

Her  life  was  like  the  stream  that  floweth, 
And  mine  was  like  the  waiting  sea ; 

Her  love  was  like  the  flower  that  bloweth, 
And  mine  was  like  the  searching  bee  — 
I  found  her  sweetness  all  for  me. 

God  plied  him  in  the  mint  of  time, 
And  coined  for  us  a  golden  day, 
And  rolled  it  ringing  down  life's  way 

With  love's  sweet  music  in  its  chime. 

And  God  unclasped  the  Book  of  Ages, 
And  laid  it  open  to  our  sight ; 

Upon  the  dimness  of  its  pages, 

So  long  consigned  to  rayless  night, 
He  shed  the  glory  of  his  light. 

We  read  them  well,  we  read  them  long, 
And  ever  thrilling  did  we  see 
That  love  ruled  all  humanity, — 

The  master  passion,  pure  and  strong. 

Ill 

To-day  my  skies  are  bare  and  ashen, 

And  bend  on  me  without  a  beam. 

Since  love  is  held  the  master-passion, 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


159 


Its  loss  must  be  the  pain  supreme  — 

And   grinning   Fate   has   wrecked   my 

dream. 
But  pardon,  dear  departed  Guest, 

I  will  not  rant,  I  will  not  rail ; 

For  good  the  grain  must  feel  the  flail ; 
There  are  whom  love  has  never  blessed. 

I  had  and  have  a  younger  brother, 
One  whom  I  loved  and  love  to-day 

As  never  fond  and  doting  mother 
Adored  the  babe  who  found  its  way 
From  heavenly  scenes  into  her  day. 

Oh,  he  was  full  of  youth's  new  wine, — 
A  man  on  life's  ascending  slope, 
Flushed  with  ambition,  full  of  hope  ; 

And  every  wish  of  his  was  mine. 

A  kingly  youth  ;  the  way  before  him 
Was  thronged  with  victories  to  be  won  ; 

So  joyous,  too,  the  heavens  o'er  him 
Were  bright  with  an  unchanging  sun, — 
His  days  with  rhyme  were  overrun. 

Toil  had  not  taught  him  Nature's  prose, 
Tears  had  not  dimmed  his  brilliant  eyes, 
And  sorrow  had  not  made  him  wise ; 

His  life  was  in  the  budding  rose. 

I  know  not  how  I  came  to  waken, 

Some  instinct  pricked  my  soul  to  sight ; 

My    heart    by    some    vague    thrill    was 

shaken, — 

A  thrill  so  true  and  yet  so  slight, 
I  hardly  deemed  I  read  aright. 

As  when  a  sleeper,  ign'rant  why, 
Not  knowing  what  mysterious  hand 
Has  called  him  out  of  slumberland, 

Starts  up  to  find  some  danger  nigh. 

Love  is  a  guest  that  comes,  unbidden, 
But,  having  come,  asserts  his  right ; 

He  will  not  be  repressed  nor  hidden. 
And  so  my  brother's  dawning  plight 
Became  uncovered  to  my  sight. 

Some  sound-mote  in  his  passing  tone 
Caught  in  the  meshes  of  my  ear ; 
Some  little  glance,  a  shade  too  dear, 

Betrayed  the  love  he  bore  lone. 

What  could  I  do  ?     He  was  my  brother, 
And  young,  and  full  of  hope  and  trust ; 


I  could  not,  dared  not  try  to  smother 
His  flame,  and  turn  his  heart  to  dust. 
I  knew  how  oft  life  gives  a  crust 

To  starving  men  who  cry  for  bread ; 
But  he  was  young,  so  few  his  days, 
He  had  not  learned  the  great  world's 
ways, 

Nor  Disappointment's  volumes  read. 

However  fair  and  rich  the  booty, 

I  could  not  make  his  loss  my  gain.     ' 
For  love  is  dear,  but  dearer,  duty, 

And  here  my  way  was  clear  and  plain. 

I  saw  how  I  could  save  him  pain. 
And  so,  with  all  my  day  grown  dim, 

That    this   loved   brother's   sun   might 
shine, 

I  joined  his  suit,  gave  over  mine, 
And  sought  lone,  to  plead  for  him. 

I  found  her  in  an  eastern  bower, 
Where  all  day  long  the  am'rous  sun 

Lay  by  to  woo  a  timid  flower. 

This  day  his  course  was  well-nigh  run, 
But  still  with  lingering  art  he  spun 

Gold  fancies  on  the  shadowed  wall. 

The  vines  waved  soft  and  green  above, 
And  there  where  one  might  tell  his  love, 

I  told  my  griefs— I  told  her  all ! 

I  told  her  all,  and  as  she  hearkened, 
A  tear-drop  fell  upon  her  dress. 

With  grief  her  flushing  brow  was  darkened ; 
One  sob  that  she  could  not  repress 
Betrayed  the  depths  of  her  distress. 

Upon  her  grief  my  sorrow  fed, 

And  I  was  bowed  with  unlived  years, 
My  heart  swelled  with  a  sea  of  tears, 

The  tears  my  manhood  could  not  shed. 

The  world  is  Rome,  and  Fate  is  Nero, 
Disporting  in  the  hour  of  doom. 

God  made  us  men ;  times  make  the  hero  — 
But  in  that  awful  space  of  gloom 
I  gave  no  thought  but  sorrow's  room. 

All — all  was  dim  within  that  bower, 
What  time  the  sun  divorced  the  day; 
And  all  the  shadows,  glooming  gray, 

Proclaimed  the  sadness  of  the  hour. 

She  could  not  speak — no  word  was  needed ; 
Her  look,  half  strength  and  half  despair, 


i6o 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


Told  me  I  had  not  vainly  pleaded, 
That  she  would  not  ignore  my  prayer. 
And  so  she  turned  and  left  me  there, 

And  as  she  went,  so  passed  my  bliss ; 
She  loved  me,  I  could  not  mistake  — 
But  for  her  own  and  my  love's  sake, 

Her  womanhood  could  rise  to  this ! 

My  wounded  heart  fled  swift  to  cover, 

And  life  at  times  seemed  very  drear. 
My  brother  proved  an  ardent  lover  — 

What  had  so  young  a  man  to  fear  ? 

He  wed  lone  within  the  year. 
No  shadow  clouds  her  tranquil  brow, 

Men  speak  her  husband's  name   with 
pride, 

While  she  sits  honored  at  his  side  — 
She  is — she  must  be  happy  now  ! 

I  doubt  the  course  I  took  no  longer, 

Since  those  I  love  seem  satisfied. 
The  bond  between  them  will  grow  stronger 

As  they  go  forward  side  by  side ; 

Then  will  my  pains  be  justified. 
Their  joy  is  mine,  and  that  is  best  — 

I  am  not  totally  bereft ; 

For  I  have  still  the  mem'ry  left  — 
Love  stopped  with  me — a  Royal  Guest ! 


RELIGION 

It  was  doubtless  about  the  time  that 
Mr.  Dunbar  reached  his  final  decision  not 
to  enter  the  ministry  that  he  wrote  these 
lines,  which  have  at  least  the  ring  of  sin- 
cerity to  recommend  them.  One  of  Mr. 
Dunbar's  marked  characteristics  was  fear- 
lessness, and  he  usually  wrote  to  the  point 
regardless  of  public  prejudices  or  opinions. 

I  am  no  priest  of  crooks  nor  creeds, 
For  human  wants  and  human  needs 
Are  more  to  me  than  prophets'  deeds ; 
And  human  tears  and  human  cares 
Affect  me  more  than  human  prayers. 

Go,  cease  your  wail,  lugubrious  saint ! 
You  fret  high  Heaven  with  your  plaint. 
Is  this  the  "  Christian's  joy  "  you  paint? 
Is  this  the  Christian's  boasted  bliss? 
Avails  your  faith  no  more  than  this  ? 


Take  up  your  arms,  come  out  with  me, 
Let  Heav'n  alone ;  humanity 
Needs  more  and  Heaven  less  from  thee. 
With  pity  for  mankind  look  'round; 
Help  them  to  rise — and  Heaven  is  found. 


DEACON  JONES'  GRIEVANCE 

I've  been  watchin*  of  'em,  parson, 

An'  I'm  sorry  fur  to  say 
'At  my  mind  is  not  contented 

With  the  loose  an'  keerless  way 
'At  the  young  folks  treat  the  music; 

'Tain't  the  proper  sort  o'  choir. 
Then  I  don't  believe  in  Christuns 

A-singin'  hymns  for  hire. 

But  I  never  would  'a'  murmured 

An'  the  matter  might  'a'  gone 
Ef  it  wasn't  fur  the  antics 

'At  I've  seen  'em  kerry  on ; 
So  I  thought  it  was  my  dooty 

Fur  to  come  to  you  an'  ask 
Ef  you  wouldn't  sort  o'  gently 

Take  them  singin'  folks  to  task. 

Fust,  the  music  they've  be'n  singin' 

Will  disgrace  us  mighty  soon  ; 
It's  a  cross  between  a  opry 

An'  a  ol'  cotillion  tune. 
With  its  dashes  an'  its  quavers 

An*  its  highfalutin  style  — 
Why,  it  sets  my  head  to  swimmin' 

When  I'm  comin'  down  the  aisle. 

Now  it  might  be  almost  decent 

Ef  it  wasn't  fur  the  way 
'At  they  git  up  there  an'  sing  it, 

Hey  dum  diddle,  loud  and  gay. 
Why,  it  shames  the  name  o'  sacred 

In  its  brazen  worldliness, 
An'  they've  even  got  "  OP  Hundred  " 

In  a  bold,  new-fangled  dress. 

You'll  excuse  me,  Mr.  Parson, 

Ef  I  seem  a  little  sore ; 
But  I've  sung  the  songs  of  Isr'el 

For  threescore  years  an*  more, 
An'  it  sort  o'  hurts  my  feelin's 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  D UNBAR 


161 


Fur  to  see  'em  put  away 
Fur  these  harum-scarum  ditties 
'At  is  capturin'  the  day. 

There's  anuther  little  happ'nin' 

'At  I'll  mention  while  I'm  here, 
Jes'  to  show  'at  my  objections 

All  is  offered  sound  and  clear. 
It  was  one  day  they  was  singin' 

An'  was  doin'  well  enough  — 
Singin'  good  as  people  could  sing 

Sich  an  awful  mess  o'  stuff — 

When  the  choir  give  a  holler, 

An'  the  organ  give  a  groan, 
An'  they  left  one  weak- voiced  feller 

A-singin'  there  alone  ! 
But  he  stuck  right  to  the  music, 

Tho'  'twas  tryin'  as  could  be ; 
An'  when  I  tried  to  help  him, 

Why,  the  hull  church  scowled  at  me. 

You  say  that's  so-low  singin', 

Well,  I  pray  the  Lord  that  I 
Growed  up  when  folks  was  willin' 

To  sing  their  hymns  so  high.  > 
Why,  we  never  had  sich  doin's 

In  the  good  oP  Bethel  days, 
When  the  folks  was  all  contented 

With  the  simple  songs  of  praise. 

Now  I  may  have  spoke  too  open, 

But  'twas  too  hard  to  keep  still, 
An'  I  hope  you'll  tell  the  singers 

'At  I  bear  'em  no  ill-will. 
'At  they  all  may  git  to  glory 

Is  my  wish  an'  my  desire, 
But  they'll  need  some  extry  trainin' 

'Fore  they  jine  the  heavenly  choir. 

ALICE 

Know  you,  winds  that  blow  your  course 

Down  the  verdant  valleys, 
That  somewhere  you  must,  perforce, 

Kiss  the  brow  of  Alice  ? 
When  her  gentle  face  you  find, 
Kiss  it  softly,  naughty  wind. 

Roses  waving  fair  and  sweet 
Thro*  the  garden  alleys, 
10 


Grow  into  a  glory  meet 
For  the  eye  of  Alice  ; 
Let  the  wind  your  offering  bear 
Of  sweet  perfume,  faint  and  rare. 

Lily  holding  crystal  dew 
In  your  pure  white  chalice, 

Nature  kind  hath  fashioned  you 
Like  the  soul  of  Alice; 

It  of  purest  white  is  wrought, 

Filled  with  gems  of  crystal  thought. 

AFTER  THE  QUARREL 

So  we,  who've  supped  the  self-same  cup, 

To-night  must  lay  our  friendship  by ; 
Your  wrath  has  burned  your  judgment  up, 

Hot  breath  has  blown  the  ashes  high. 
You  say  that  you  are  wronged — ah,  well, 

I  count  that  friendship  poor,  at  best 
A  bauble,  a  mere  bagatelle, 

That  cannot  stand  so  slight  a  test. 

I  fain  would  still  have  been  your  friend, 
And  talked  and  laughed  and  loved  with 
you; 

But  since  it  must,  why,  let  it  end ; 

^  The  false  but  dies,  'tis  not  the  true. 

So  we  are  favored,  you  and  I, 
Who  only  want  the  living  truth. 

It  was  not  good  to  nurse  the  lie ; 
Tis  well  it  died  in  harmless  youth. 

I  go  from  you  to-night  to  sleep. 

Why,  what's  the  odds  ?  why  should  I 

grieve  ? 
I  have  no  fund  of  tears  to  weep 

For  happenings  that  undeceive. 
The  days  shall  come,  the  days  shall  go 

Just  as  they  came  and  went  before. 
The  sun  shall  shine,  the  streams  shall  flow 

Though  you  and  I  are  friends  no  more. 

And  in  the  volume  of  my  years, 

Where  all  my  thoughts  and  acts  shall  be, 

The  page  whereon  your  name  appears 
Shall  be  forever  sealed  to  me. 

Not  that  I  hate  you  over-much, 
Tis  less  of  hate  than  love  defied ; 


1 62 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


Howe'er,  our  hands  no  more  shall  touch, 
We'll  go  our  ways,  the  world  is  wide. 

BEYOND  THE  YEARS 


Beyond  the  years  the  answer  lies, 
Beyond  where  brood  the  grieving  skies 

And  Night  drops  tears. 
Where  Faith  rod-chastened  smiles  to  rise 

And  doff  its  fears, 
And  carping  Sorrow  pines  and  dies  — 

Beyond  the  years. 


Beyond  the  years  the  prayer  for  rest 
Shall  beat  no  more  within  the  breast ; 

The  darkness  clears, 

And    Morn    perched  on   the   mountain's 
crest 

Her  form  uprears  — 
The  day  that  is  to  come  is  best, 

Beyond  the  years. 

in 

Beyond  the  years  the  soul  shall  find 
That  endless  peace  for  which  it  pined, 

For  light  appears, 
And  to  the  eyes  that  still  were  blind 

With  blood  and  tears, 
Their  sight  shall  come  all  unconfined 

Beyond  the  years. 


AFTER  A  VISIT 

I  be'n  down  in  ole  Kentucky 

Fur  a  week  er  two,  an'  say, 
'Twuz  ez  hard  ez  breakin'  oxen 

Fur  to  tear  myse'f  away. 
Allus  argerin'  'bout  fren'ship 

An'  yer  hospitality  — 
Y'  ain't  no  right  to  talk  about  it 

Tell  you  be'n  down  there  to  see. 

See  jest  how  they  give  you  welcome 
To  the  best  that's  in  the  land, 

Feel  the  sort  o'  grip  they  give  you 
When  they  take  you  by  the  hand. 

Hear  'em  say,  "  We're  glad  to  have  you, 
Better  stay  a  week  er  two ;  " 


An*  the  way  they  treat  you  makes  you 
Feel  that  ev'ry  word  is  true. 

Feed  you  tell  you  hear  the  buttons 

Crackin'  on  yore  Sunday  vest ; 
Haul  you  roun'  to  see  the  wonders 

Tell  you  have  to  cry  for  rest. 
Drink  yer  health  an'  pet  an'  praise  you 

Tell  you  git  to  feel  ez  great 
Ez  the  Sheriff  o'  the  county 

Er  the  Gov'ner  o'  the  State. 

Wife,  she  sez  I  must  be  crazy 

'Cause  I  go  on  so,  an'  Nelse 
He  'lows,  "  Goodness  gracious !  daddy, 

Cain't  you  talk  about  nuthin'  el"e  ?  " 
Well,  pleg-gone  it,  I'm  jes'  tickled, 

Bein'  tickled  ain't  no  sin ; 
I  be'n  down  in  ole  Kentucky, 

An'  I  want  o'  go  ag'in. 

CURTAIN 

Villain  shows  his  indiscretion, 
Villain's  partner  makes  confession. 
Juvenile,  with  golden  tresses, 
Finds  her  pa  and  dons  long  dresses. 
Scapegrace  comes  home  money-laden, 
Hero  comforts  tearful  maiden, 
Soubrette  marries  loyal  chappie 
Villain  skips,  and  all  are  happy. 

THE  SPELLIN'-BEE 

I  never  shall  furgit  that  night  when  father 

hitched  up  Dobbin, 
An'  all   us    youngsters  clambered  in  an' 

down  the  road  went  bobbin' 
To  school  where  we  was  kep'  .at  work  in 

every  kind  o'  weather, 
But  where    that  night  a  spellin'-bee  was 

callin'  us  together. 
'Twas  one  o'  Heaven's  banner  nights,  the 

stars  was  all  a  glitter, 
The  moon  was  shinin'  like  the  hand  o' 

God  had  jest  then  lit  her. 
The  ground  was  white  with  spotless  snow, 

the  blast  was  sort  o'  stingin' ; 
But  underneath  our  round-abouts,  you  bet 

our  hearts  was  singin'. 
That  spellin'-bee  had  be'n  the  talk  o'  many 

a  precious  moment, 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


163 


The  youngsters  all  was  wild  to  see  jes' 

what  the  precious  show  meant, 
An'  we  whose  years  was  in  their  teens  was 

little  less  desirous 

O'  gittin'  to   the  meetin'  so's  our  sweet- 
hearts could  admire  us. 
So  on  we  went  so  anxious  fur  to  satisfy  our 

mission 
That  father  had  to  box  our  ears,  to  smother 

our  ambition. 

But  boxin'  ears  was  too  short  work  to  hin- 
der our  arrivin', 
He  jest  turned  roun'  an*  smacked  us  all, 

an'  kep'  right  on  a-drivin'. 
Well,  soon  the  schoolhouse  hove  in  sight, 

the  winders  beamin'  brightly ; 
The  sound  o'  talkin'  reached  our  ears,  and 

voices  laffin'  lightly. 
It  puffed  us  up  so  full  an'  big  'at  I'll  jest 

bet  a  dollar, 
There  wa'n't   a  feller  there  but  felt  the 

strain  upon  his  collar. 
So  down  we  jumped  an'  iii  we  went  ez 

sprightly  ez  you  make  'em, 
But  somethin'  grabbed  us  by  the  knees  an' 

straight  began  to  shake  'em. 
Fur   once  within  that  lighted  room,  our 

feelin's  took  a  canter, 
An'  scurried  to  the  zero  mark  ez  quick  ez 

Tarn  O'Shanter. 
'Cause  there  was  crowds  o'  people  there, 

both  sexes  an'  all  stations ; 
It  looked  like  all  the  town  had  come  an* 

brought  all  their  relations. 
The  first  I  saw  was  Nettie  Gray,  I  thought 

that  girl  was  dearer 
'N'  gold ;  an'  when  I  got  a  chance,  you 

bet  I  aidged  up  near  her. 
An'  Farmer  Dobbs's  girl  was  there,  the  one 

'at  Jim  was  sweet  on, 
An'  Cyrus   Jones   an'  Mandy   Smith   an' 

Faith  an'  Patience  Deaton. 
Then   Parson    Brown    an'  Lawyer   Jones 

were  present — all  attention, 
An'  piles  on  piles  of  other  folks  too  nu- 
merous to  mention. 
The  master  rose  an'  briefly  said :  "  Good 

friends,  dear  brother  Crawford, 
To  spur  the  pupils'  minds  along,  a  little 

prize  has  offered. 
To  him  who  spells  the  best  to-night — or  't 

may  be  « her ' — no  tellin' — 


He  offers  ez  a  jest  reward,  this  precious 

work  on  spellin'." 
A    little    blue- backed    spellin'-book    with 

fancy  scarlet  trimmin', 
We  boys  devoured  it  with  our  eyes — so  did 

the  girls  an'  women. 
He  held  it  up  where  all  could  see,  then  on 

the  table  set  it, 
An'  ev'ry  speller  in  the  house  felt  mortal 

bound  to  get  it. 
At  his  command  we  fell  in  line,  prepared 

to  do  our  dooty, 
Outspell  the  rest  an'  set  'em  down,  an' 

carry  home  the  booty. 
'Twas   then  the  merry  times  began,  the 

blunders,  an'  the  laffin', 
The  nudges  an'  the  nods  an'  winks  an' 

stale  good-natured  chaffin'. 
Ole   Uncle   Hiram   Dane  was  there,  the 

clostest  man  a-livin', 
Whose  only  bugbear   seemed   to   be  the 

dreadful  fear  o'  givin'. 
His  beard  was  long,  his  hair  uncut,  his 

clothes  all  bare  an'  dingy  ; 
It  wasn't  'cause  the  man  was  pore,  but  jest 

so  mortal  stingy. 
An'  there  he  sot  by  Sally  Riggs  a-smilin' 

an'  a-smirkin', 
An'  all  his  childern  lef '  to  home  a  diggin' 

an*  a-workin'. 
A  widower  he  was,  an'  Sal  was  thinkin' 

'at  she'd  wing  him ; 
I   reckon   he   was   wond'rin*  what   them 

rings  o'  hern  would  bring  him. 
An'  when  the  spellin'-test  commenced,  he 

up  an'  took  his  station, 
A-spellin'  with  the  best  o'  them  to  beat 

the  very  nation. 
An*    when    he'd    spell    some    youngster 

down,  he'd  turn  to  look  at  Sally, 
An'  say :   "  The  teachin'  nowadays  can't 

be  o'  no  great  vally." 
But  true  enough  the  adage  says,  "  Pride 

walks  in  slipp'ry  places," 
Fur  soon  a  thing  occurred  that  put  a  smile 

on  all  our  faces. 
The   laffter  jest  kep'   ripplin'  'roun'  an* 

teacher  couldn't  quell  it, 
Fur  when    he    give   out   "  charity "   ole 

Hiram  couldn't  spell  it. 
But  laffin'  's  ketchin'  an'  it  throwed  some 

others  off  their  bases, 


I64 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


An'  folks  Vd  miss  the  very  word  that 

seemed  to  fit  their  cases. 
Why,  fickle  little  Jessie   Lee  come  near 

the  house  upsettin' 
By  puttin'  in  a  double  "  kay  "  to  spell  the 

word  "  coquettin'." 
An'  when    it    come   to   Cyrus   Jones,   it 

tickled  me  all  over  — 
Him  settin'  up  to  Mandy  Smith  an'  got 

sot  down  on  "  lover." 
But  Lawyer  Jones  of  all  gone  men  did 

shorely  look  the  gonest, 
When  he  found  out  that  he'd  furgot  to  put 

the  "  h  "  in  "  honest." 
An'  Parson  Brown,  whose  sermons  were 

too  long  fur  toleration, 
Caused  lots  o'  smiles  by  missin'  when  they 

give  out  "  condensation." 
So  one  by  one  they  giv'  it  up — the  big 

words  kep'  a-landin', 
Till  me  an'  Nettie  Gray  was  left,  the  only 

ones  a-standin', 
An'  then  my  inward  strife  began — I  guess 

my  mind  was  petty  — 
I  did  so  want  that  spellin'-book  ;  but  then 

to  spell  down  Nettie 

Jest  sort  o'  went  ag'in  my  grain — I  some- 
how couldn't  do  it, 
An'  when  I  git  a  notion  fixed,  I'm  great 

on  stickin'  to  it. 
So  when  they  giv'  the  next  word  out — I 

hadn't  orter  tell  it, 
But   then  'twas   all   fur  Nettie's  sake — I 

missed  so's  she  could  spell  it. 
She  spelt  the  word,  then  looked  at  me  so 

lovin'-like  an'  mello', 
I  tell  you  't  sent  a  hunderd  pins  a-shootin 

through  a  fello'. 
O'  course   I   had  to  stand  the  jokes  an' 

chaffin'  of  the  fello's, 
But  when  they  handed  her  the  book  I  vow 

I  wasn't  jealous. 

We  sung  a  hymn,  an'  Parson  Brown  dis- 
missed us  like  he  orter, 
Fur,  la !  he'd  learned  a  thing  er  two  an' 

made  his  blessin'  shorter. 
Twas  late  an'  cold  when  we  got  out,  but 

Nettie  liked  cold  weather, 
An*  so  did  I,  so  we  agreed  we'd  jest  walk 

home  together. 
We  both  wuz  silent,    fur   of  words  we 

nuther  had  a  surplus, 


'Til    she    spoke   out   quite   sudden   like 

"  You  missed  that  word  on  purpose." 
Well,  I  declare  it  frightened  me ;  at  first 

I  tried  denyin', 
But  Nettie,  she  jest  smiled  an'  smiled,  she 

knowed  that  I  was  lyin'. 
Sez  she  :  "  That  book  is  yourn  by  right ; " 

sez  I :  "It  never  could  be  — 
I— I— you— ah "  an'  there   I   stuck, 

an'  well  she  understood  me. 
So  we  agreed  that  later  on  when  age  had 

giv'  us  tether, 
We'd  jine  our  lots  an'  settle  down  to  own 

that  book  together. 


KEEP  A-PLUGGIN'  AWAY 

I've  a  humble  little  motto 

That  is  homely,  though  it's  true, — 

Keep  a-pluggin'  away. 
It's  a  thing  when  I've  an  object 
That  I  always  try  to  do, — 

Keep  a-pluggin'  away. 
When  you've  rising  storms  to  quell, 
When  opposing  waters  swell, 
It  will  never  fail  to  tell, — 

Keep  a-pluggin'  away. 


If  the  hills  are  high  before 
And  the  paths  are  hard  to  climb, 

Keep  a-pluggin'  away. 
And  remember  that  successes 
Come  to  him  who  bides  his  time, — 

Keep  a  pluggin'  away. 
From  the  greatest  to  the  least, 
None  are  from  the  rule  released. 
Be  thou  toiler,  poet,  priest, 

Keep  a-pluggin'  away. 


Delve  away  beneath  the  surface, 
There  is  treasure  farther  down, — 

Keep  a-pluggin'  away. 
Let  the  rain  come  down  in  torrents, 
Let  the  threat'ning  heavens  frown, 

Keep  a-pluggin'  away. 
When  the  clouds  have  rolled  away, 
There  will  come  a  brighter  day 
All  your  labor  to  repay,— 

Keep  a-pluggin'  away. 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


165 


There'll  be  lots  of  sneers  to  swallow, 
There'll  be  lots  of  pain  to  bear, — 

Keep  a-pluggin'  away. 
If  you've  got  your  eye  on  heaven, 
Some  bright  day  you'll  wake  up  there, — 

Keep  a-pluggin'  away. 
Perseverance  still  Is  king ; 
Time  its  sure  reward  will  bring ; 
Work  and  wait  unwearying, — 

Keep  a-pluggin'  away. 


NIGHT  OF  LOVE 

The  moon  has  left  the  sky,  love, 

The  stars  are  hiding  now, 
And  frowning  on  the  world,  love, 

Night  bares  her  sable  brow. 
The  snow  is  on  the  ground,  love, 

And  cold  and  keen  the  air  is.  ' 
I'm  singing  here  to  you,  love; 

You're  dreaming  there  in  Paris. 

But  this  is  Nature's  law,  love, 

Though  just  it  may  not  seem, 
That  men  should  wake  to  sing,  love, 

While  maidens  sleep  and  dream. 
Them  care  may  not  molest,  love, 

Nor  stir  them  from  their  slumbers, 
Though  midnight  find  the  swain,  love, 

Still  halting  o'er  his  numbers. 

I  watch  the  rosy  dawn,  love, 

Come  stealing  up  the  east, 
While  all  things  round  rejoice,  love, 

That  Night  her  reign  has  ceased. 
The  lark  will  soon  be  heard,  love, 

And  on  his  way  be  winging ; 
When  Nature's  poets  wake,  love, 

Why  should  a  man  be  singing? 


COLUMBIAN  ODE 

I 

Four  hundred  years  ago  a  tangled  waste 

Lay  sleeping  on  the  west  Atlantic's  side ; 
Their  devious  ways  the  Old  World's  mil- 
lions traced 

Content,  and  loved,  and  labored,  dared 
and  died, 


While   students  still  believed  the  charts 

they  conned, 

And    reveled    in   their   thriftless   igno- 
rance, 

Nor  dreamed  of  other  lands  that  lay  be- 
yond 
Old  Ocean's  dense,  indefinite  expanse. 

II 

But  deep  within   her  heart  old   Nature 

knew 
That  she  had  once  arrayed,  at  Earth's 

behest, 

Another  offspring,  fine  and  fair  to  view, — 
The   chosen   suckling  of  the   mother's 

breast. 
The  child  was  wrapped  in  vestments  soft 

and  fine, 
Each  fold  a  work  of  Nature's  matchless 

art; 

The  mother  looked  on  it  with  love  divine, 
And  strained  the  loved  one  closely  to 

her  heart. 
And   there  it  lay,  and  with  the  warmth 

grew  strong 
And    hearty,   by   the   salt   sea   breezes 

fanned, 
Till  Time  with  mellowing  touches  passed 

along, 

And   changed   the  infant  to  a  mighty 
land. 

Ill 

But  men  knew  naught  of  this,  till  there 

arose 

That  mighty  mariner,  the  Genoese, 
Who  dared  to  try,  in  spite  of  fears  and 

foes, 
The   unknown   fortunes  of  unsounded 

seas. 
O  noblest  of  Italia's  sons,  thy  bark 

Went    not   alone    into    that    shrouding 

night ! 

O  dauntless  darer  of  the  rayless  dark, 
The  world  sailed  with  thee  to  eternal 

light ! 
The    deer-haunts    that   with    game   were 

crowded  then 

To-day  are  tilled  and  cultivated  lands ; 
The  schoolhouse  tow'rs  where  Bruin  had 
his  den, 


1 66 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


And  where  the  wigwam  stood,  the  chapel 

stands  ; 
The  place  that  nurtured  men  of  savage 

mien 
Now  teems  with  men  of  Nature's  noblest 

types  ; 
Where    moved  the   forest-foliage   banner 

green, 
Now  flutters  in  the  breeze  the  stars  and 

stripes  ! 

A  BORDER  BALLAD 

Oh,  I  haven't  got  long  to  live,  for  we  all 

Die  soon,  e'en  those  who  live  longest  ; 
And  the  poorest  and  weakest  are  taking 
their  chance 

Along  with  the  richest  and  strongest. 
So  it's  heigho  for  a  glass  and  a  song, 

And  a  bright  eye  over  the  table, 
And  a  dog  for  the  hunt  when  the  game  is 
flush, 

And  the  pick  of  a  gentleman's  stable. 

There  is  Dimmock  o'  Dune,  he  was  here 

yesternight, 

But  he's  rotting  to-day  on  Glen  Arragh  ; 
'Twas  the  hand  o'  MacPherson  that  gave 

him  the  blow, 
And  the  vultures  shall  feast  on  his  mar- 

row. 
But  it's  heigho  for  a  brave  old  song 

And  a  glass  while  we  are  able  ; 
Here's  a  health  to  death  and  anothe*r  cup 
To  the  bright  eye  over  the  table. 

I  can  show  a  broad  back  and  a  jolly  deep 
chest, 

But  who  argues  now  on  appearance  ? 
A  blow  or  a  thrust  or  a  stumble  at  best 

May  send  me  to-day  to  my  clearance. 
Then  it's  heigho  for  the  things  I  love, 

My  mother'll  be  soon  wearing  sable, 
But  give  me  my  horse  and  my  dog  and  my 
glass, 

And  a  bright  eye  over  the  table. 


AN  EASY-COIN'  FELLER 

Ther'  ain't  no  use  in  all  this  strife, 
An'  hurryin',  pell-mell,  right  thro'  life. 


I  don't  believe  in  goin'  too  fast 

To  see  what  kind  o'  road  you've  passed. 

It  ain't  no  mortal  kind  o'  good, 

'N'  I  wouldn't  hurry  ef  I  could. 

I  like  to  jest  go  joggin'  'long, 

To  limber  up  my  soul  with  song ; 

To  stop  awhile  'n'  chat  the  men, 

'N'  drink  some  cider  now  an'  then. 

Do'  want  no  boss  a-standin'  by 

To  see  me  work;  I  allus  try 

To  do  my  dooty  right  straight  up, 

An'  earn  what  fills  my  plate  an'  cup. 

An'  ez  fur  boss,  I'll  be  my  own, 

I  like  to  jest  be  let  alone, 

To  plough  my  strip  an'  tend  my  bees, 

An'  do  jest  like  I  doggoned  please. 

My  head's  all  right,  an'  my  heart's  meller, 

But  I'm  a  easy-goin'  feller. 

THE  DILETTANTE:  A  MODERN 
TYPE 

He  scribbles  some  in  prose  and  verse, 
And  now  and  then  he  prints  it ; 

He  paints  a  little, — gathers  some 
Of  nature's  gold  and  mints  it. 

He  plays  a  little,  sings  a  song, 

Acts  tragic  roles,  or  funny ; 
He  does,  because  his  love  is  strong, 

But  not,  oh,  not  for  money  ! 

He  studies  almost  everything 

From  social  art  to  science ; 
A  thirsty  mind,  a  flowing  spring, 

Demand  and  swift  compliance. 

He  looms  above  the  sordid  crowd  — 
At  least  through  friendly  lenses  ; 

While   his   mamma   looks  pleased  and 

proud, 
And  kindly  pays  expenses. 

BY  THE  STREAM 

By  the  stream   I  dream  in  calm  delight, 

and  watch  as  in  a  glass, 
How  the  clouds  like  crowds  of  snowy-hued 

and  white-robed  maidens  pass, 
And  the  water  into  ripples   breaks  and 

sparkles  as  it  spreads, 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


167 


Like  a  host  of  armored  knights  with  silver 

helmets  on  their  heads. 
And  I  deem  the  stream  an  emblem  fit  of 

human  life  may  go, 
For  I  find  a  mind  may  sparkle  much  and 

yet  but  shallows  show, 
And  a  soul  may  glow  with  myriad  lights 

and  wondrous  mysteries, 
When  it  only  lies  a  dormant  thing  and 

mirrors  what  it  sees. 

NATURE  AND  ART 

TO    MY     FRIEND     CHARLES     BOOTH     NET- 
TLETON 


The  young  queen  Nature,  ever  sweettand 

fair, 

Once  on  a  time  fell  upon  evil  days. 
From  hearing  oft  herself  discussed  with 

praise, 
There  grew  within  her  heart  the  longing 

rare 

To  see  herself;  and  every  passing  air 
The  warm  desire  fanned  into  lusty  blaze. 
Full  oft  she  sought  this  end  by  devious 

ways, 

But  sought  in  vain,  so  fell  she  in  despair. 

For  none  within  her  train  nor  by  her  side 

Could  solve  the  task  or  give  the  envied 

boon. 
So  day  and  night,  beneath  the  sun  and 

moon, 

She  wandered  to  and  fro  unsatisfied, 
Till  Art  came  by,  a  blithe  inventive  elf, 
And  made  a  glass  wherein  she  saw  her- 
self. 

II 

Enrapt,  the  queen  gazed  on  her  glorious 

self, 
Then  trembling  with  the  thrill  of  sudden 

thought, 
Commanded  that  the  skilful    wight  be 

brought 
That  she  might  dower  him  with  lands  and 

pelf. 

Then  out  upon  the  silent  sea-lapt  shelf 
And  up  the  hills  and  on  the  downs  they 
sought 


Him  who  so  well  and  wondrously  had 

wrought ; 
And  with  much  search  found  and  brought 

home  the  elf. 

But  he  put  by  all  gifts  with  sad  replies, 
And  from  his  lips  these  words  flowed  forth 

like  wine  : 
"  O  queen,  I  want  no  gift  but  thee," 

he  said. 
She  heard  and  looked  on  him  with  love-lit 

eyes, 
Gave  him  her  hand,  low  murmuring,  "  I 

am  thine," 

And  at  the  morrow's  dawning  they  were 
wed. 


AFTER  WHILE 

A  POEM  OF  FAITH 

I  think  that  though  the  clouds  be  dark, 
That  though  the  waves  dash  o'er  the  bark, 
Yet  after  while  the  light  will  come, 
And  in  calm  waters  safe  at  home 
The  bark  will  anchor. 
Weep  not,  my  sad-eyed,  gray-robed  maid, 
Because  your  fairest  blossoms  fade, 
That  sorrow  still  o'erruns  your  cup, 
And  even  though  you  root  them  up, 
The  weeds  grow  ranker. 

For  after  while  your  tears  shall  cease, 
And  sorrow  shall  give  way  to  peace  ; 
The  flowers  shall  bloom,  the  weeds  shall 

die, 
And  in  that  faith  seen,  by  and  by 

Thy  woes  shall  perish. 
Smile  at  old  Fortune's  adverse  tide, 
Smile  when  the  scoffers  sneer  and  chide. 
Oh,  not  for  you  the  gems  that  pale, 
And  not  for  you  the  flowers  that  fail ; 

Let  this  thought  cherish  : 

That  after  while  the  clouds  will  part, 
And  then  with  joy  the  waiting  heart 
Shall  feel  the  light  come  stealing  in, 
That  drives  away  the  cloud  of  sin 

And  breaks  its  power. 
And  you  shall  burst  your  chrysalis, 
And  wing  away  to  realms  of  bliss, 
Untrammeled,  pure,  divinely  free, 
Above  all  earth's  anxiety 

From  that  same  hour. 


168 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


A  NEGRO  LOVE  SONG 

This  poem  illustrates  the  way  in  which 
Mr.  Dunbar  utilized  the  most  humble  of 
happenings  as  material  for  his  verses. 
During  the  World's  Fair  he  served  for  a 
short  time  as  hotel  waiter.  When  the 
negroes  were  not  busy  they  had  a  custom 
of  congregating  and  talking  about  their 
sweethearts.  Then  a  man  with  a  tray 
would  come  along  and,  as  the  dining-room 
was  frequently  crowded,  he  would  say, 
when  in  need  of  passing-room  :  "  Jump 
back,  honey,  jump  back."  Out  of  these 
commonplace  confidences,  he  wove  the 
musical  little  composition — "  A  Negro 
Love  Song." 

Seen  my  lady  home  las'  night, 

Jump  back,  honey,  jump  back. 
Hel'  huh  han'  an'  sque'z  it  tight, 
Jump  back,  honey,  jump  back. 
Hyeahd  huh  sigh  a  little  sigh, 
Seen  a  light  gleam  f  om  huh  eye, 
An'  a  smile  go  flittin'  by  — 
Jump  back,  honey,  jump  back. 

Hyeahd  de  win'  blow  thoo  de  pine, 
Jump  back,  honey,  jump  back. 

Mockin'-bird  was  singin'  fine, 
Jump  back,  honey,  jump  back. 

An*  my  hea't  was  beatin'  so, 

When  I  reached  my  lady's  do', 

Dat  I  couldn't  ba*  to  go  — 
Jump  back,  honey,  jump  back. 

Put  my  ahm  aroun'  huh  wais', 
Jump  back,  honey,  jump  back. 

Raised  huh  lips  an*  took  a  tase, 
Jump  back,  honey,  jump  back. 

Love  me,  honey,  love  me  true  ? 

Love  me  well  ez  I  love  you  ? 

An'  she  answe'd,  "  'Cose  I  do" — 
Jump  back,  honey,  jump  back. 


THE  COLORED  SOLDIERS 

If  the  muse  were  mine  to  tempt  it 
And  my  feeble  voice  were  strong, 

If  my  tongue  were  trained  to  measures, 
1  would  sing  a  stirring  song. 


I  would  sing  a  song  heroic 

Of  those  noble  sons  of  Ham, 
Of  the  gallant  colored  soldiers 

Who  fought  for  Uncle  Sam ! 

In  the  early  days  you  scorned  them, 

And  with  many  a  flip  and  flout 
Said  "  These  battles  are  the  white  man's, 

And  the  whites  will  fight  them  out." 
Up  the  hills  you  fought  and  faltered, 

In  the  vales  you  strove  and  bled, 
While  your  ears  still  heard  the  thunder 

Of  the  foes'  advancing  tread. 

Then  distress  fell  on  the  nation, 

And  the  flag  was  drooping  low ; 
Should  the  dust  pollute  your  banner  ? 

Noi  the  nation  shouted,  No  ! 
So  when  War,  in  savage  triumph, 

Spread  abroad  his  funeral  pall  — 
Then  you  called  the  colored  soldiers, 

And  they  answered  to  your  call. 

And  like  hounds  unleashed  and  eager 

For  the  life  blood  of  the  prey, 
Sprung  they  forth  and  bore  them  bravely 

In  the  thickest  of  the  fray. 
And  where'er  the  fight  was  hottest, 

Where  the  bullets  fastest  fell, 
There  they  pressed  unblanched  and  fear- 
less 

At  the  very  mouth  of  hell. 

Ah,  they  rallied  to  the  standard 

To  uphold  it  by  their  might ; 
None  were  stronger  in  the  labors, 

None  were  braver  in  the  fight. 
From  the  blazing  breach  of  Wagner 

To  the  plains  of  Olustee, 
They  were  foremost  in  the  fight 

Of  the  battles  of  the  free. 

And  at  Pillow  !     God  have  mercy 

On  the  deeds  committed  there, 
And  the  souls  of  those  poor  victims 

Sent  to  Thee  without  a  prayer. 
Let  the  fulness  of  Thy  pity 

O'er  the  hot  wrought  spirits  sway 
Of  the  gallant  colored  soldiers 

Who  fell  fighting  on  that  day ! 


SEEN  MY  LADY  HOME  LAS'  NIGHT 


WHEN  DE  CO'N  PONE'S  HOT 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


Yes,  the  Blacks  enjoy  their  freedom, 

And  they  won  it  dearly,  too ; 
For  the  life  blood  of  their  thousands 

Did  the  southern  fields  bedew. 
In  the  darkness  of  their  bondage, 

In  the  depths  of  slavery's  night, 
Their  muskets  flashed  the  dawning, 

And  they  fought  their  way  to  light. 

They  were  comrades  then  and  brothers, 

Are  they  more  or  less  to-day  ? 
They  were  good  to  stop  a  bullet 

And  to  front  the  fearful  fray. 
They  were  citizens  and  soldiers, 

When  rebellion  raised  its  head ; 
And  the  traits  that  made  them  worthy, — 

Ah !  those  virtues  are  not  dead. 

They  have  shared  your  nightly  vigils, 

They  have  shared  your  daily  toil ; 
And  their  blood  with  yours  commingling 

Has  enriched  the  Southern  soil. 
They  have  slept  and  marched  and  suffered 

'Neath  the  same  dark  skies  as  you, 
They  have  met  as  fierce  a  foeman, 

And  have  been  as  brave  and  true. 

And  their  deeds  shall  find  a  record 

In  the  registry  of  Fame ; 
For  their  blood  has  cleansed  completely 

Every  blot  of  Slavery's  shame. 
So  all  honor  and  all  glory 

To  those  noble  sons  of  Ham  — 
The  gallant  colored  soldiers 

Who  fought  for  Uncle  Sam ! 

WHEN  DE  CO'N  PONE'S  HOT 

Dey  is  times  in  life  when  Nature 

Seems  to  slip  a  cog  an'  go, 
Jes'  a-rattlin'  down  creation, 

Lak  an  ocean's  overflow  ; 
When  de  worl'  jes'  stahts  a-spinnin' 

Lak  a  picaninny's  top, 
An'  yo'  cup  o'  joy  is  brimmin' 

'Twell  it  seems  about  to  slop, 
An'  you  feel  jes'  lak  a  racah, 

Dat  is  trainin'  fu'  to  trot  — 
When  yo'  mammy  says  de  blessin' 

An'  de  co'n  pone's  hot. 

When  you  set  down  at  de  table, 
Kin'  o'  weary  lak  an'  sad, 


An'  you'se  jes'  a  little  tiahed 

An'  purhaps  a  little  mad  ; 
How  yo'  gloom  tu'ns  into  gladness, 

How  yo'  joy  drives  out  de  doubt 
When  de  oven  do'  is  opened, 

An'  de  smell  comes  po'in'  out ; 
Why,  de  'lectric  light  o'  Heaven 

Seems  to  settle  on  de  spot, 
When  yo'  mammy  says  de  blessin' 

An'  de  co'n  pone's  hot. 

When  de  cabbage  pot  is  steamin' 

An'  de  bacon  good  an'  fat, 
When  de  chittlins  is  a-sputter'n' 

So's  to  show  you  whah  dey's  at ; 
Tek  away  yo'  sody  biscuit, 

Tek  away  yo'  cake  an'  pie, 
Fu'  de  glory  time  is  comin', 

An'  it's  'proachin'  mighty  nigh, 
An*  you  want  to  jump  an'  hollah, 

Dough  you  know  you'd  bettah  not, 
When  yo'  mammy  says  de  blessin', 

An'  de  co'n  pone's  hot. 


I  have  hyeahd  o'  lots  o'  sermons, 

An'  I've  hyeahd  o'  lots  o'  prayers, 
An*  I've  listened  to  some  singin* 

Dat  has  tuk  me  up  de  stairs 
Of  de  Glory-Lan'  an'  set  me 

Jes'  below  de  Mahstah's  th'one, 
An'  have  lef '  my  hea't  a-singin' 

In  a  happy  aftah  tone  ; 
But  dem  wu'ds  so  sweetly  murmured 

Seem  to  tech  de  softes'  spot, 
When  my  mammy  says  de  blessin', 

An'  de  co'n  pone's  hot. 

THE  OL'  TUNES 

You  kin  talk  about  yer  anthems 

An'  yer  arias  an*  sich, 
An'  yer  modern  choir-singin' 

That  you  think  so  awful  rich  ; 
But  you  orter  heerd  us  youngsters 

In  the  times  now  far  away, 
A-singin'  o'  the  ol'  tunes 

In  the  ol'-fashioned  way. 

There  was  some  of  us  sung  treble 

An'  a  few  of  us  growled  bass, 
An'  the  tide  o'  song  flowed  smoothly 


172 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


With  its  'comp'niment  o'  grace  ; 
There  was  spirit  in  that  music, 

An'  a  kind  o'  solemn  sway, 
A-singin'  o'  the  ol'  tunes 

In  the  ol'-fashioned  way. 

I  remember  oft  o'  standin' 

In  my  homespun  pantaloons  — 
On  my  face  the  bronze  an'  freckles 

O'  the  suns  o'  youthful  Junes  — 
Thinkin'  that  no  mortal  minstrel 

Ever  chanted  sich  a  lay 
As  the  ol'  tunes  we  was  singin' 

In  the  ol'-fashioned  way. 

The  boys  'ud  always  lead  us, 

An'  the  girls  'ud  all  chime  in, 
Till  the  sweetness  o'  the  singin' 

Robbed  the  list'nin'  soul  o'  sin  ; 
An'  I  used  to  tell  the  parson 

'Twas  as  good  to  sing  as  pray, 
When  the  people  sung  the  ol'  tunes 

In  the  ol'-fashioned  way. 

How  I  long  ag'in  to  hear  'em 

Pourin'  forth  from  soul  to  soul, 
With  the  treble  high  an'  meller, 

An*  the  bass's  mighty  roll ; 
But  the  times  is  very  diff  rent, 

An'  the  music  heerd  to-day 
Ain't  the  singin'  o'  the  ol'  tunes 

In  the  ol'-fashioned  way. 

Little  screechin'  by  a  woman, 

Little  squawkin'  by  a  man, 
Then  the  organ's  twiddle-twaddle, 

Jest  the  empty  space  to  span,  — 
An'  ef  you  should  even  think  it, 

'Tisn't  proper  fur  to  say 
That  you  want  to  hear  the  ol'  tunes 

In  the  ol'-fashioned  way. 

But  I  think  that  some  bright  mornin', 

When  the  toils  of  life  air  o'er, 
An'  the  sun  o'  heaven  arisin' 

Glads  with  light  the  happy  shore, 
I  shall  hear  the  angel  chorus, 

In  the  realms  of  endless  day, 
A-singin'  o'  the  ol'  tunes 

In  the  ol'-fashioned  way. 


MELANCHOLIA 

Silently  without  my  window, 
Tapping  gently  at  the  pane, 
Falls  the  rain. 

Through  the  trees  sighs  the  breeze 
Like  a  soul  in  pain. 

Here  alone  I  sit  and  weep ; 

Thought  hath  banished  sleep. 

Wearily  I  sit  and  listen 

To  the  water's  ceaseless  drip. 
To  my  lip 

Fate  turns  up  the  bitter  cup, 
Forcing  me  to  sip ; 

'Tis  a  bitter,  bitter  drink, 

Thus  I  sit  and  think,— 

Thinking  things  unknown  and  awful, 
Thoughts  on  wild,  uncanny  themes, 
Waking  dreams. 

Spectres  dark,  corpses  stark, 
Show  the  gaping  seams 

Whence  the  cold  and  cruel  knife 

Stole  away  their  life. 


Bloodshot  eyes  all  strained  and  staring, 

Gazing  ghastly  into  mine  ; 

Blood  like  wine 
On  the  brow — clotted  now  — 

Shows  death's  dreadful  sign. 
Lonely  vigil  still  I  keep ; 
Would  that  I  might  sleep ! 

Still,  oh,  still,  my  brain  is  whirling! 

Still  runs  on  my  stream  of  thought ; 

I  am  caught   . 
In  the  net  fate  hath  set. 

Mind  and  soul  are  brought 
To  destruction's  very  brink  ; 
Yet  I  can  but  think ! 

Eyes  that  look  into  the  future, — 
Peeping  forth  from  out  my  mind. 
They  will  find 

Some  new  weight,  soon  or  late, 
On  my  soul  to  bind, 

Crushing  all  its  courage  out, — 

Heavier  than  doubt. 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


173 


Dawn,  the  Eastern  monarch's  daughter, 

Rising  from  her  dewy  bed, 

Lays  her  head 
'Gainst  the  clouds'  sombre  shrouds 

Now  half  fringed  with  red. 
O'er  the  land  she  'gins  to  peep ; 
Come,  O  gentle  Sleep ! 

Hark  !  the  morning  cock  is  crowing ; 

Dreams,  like  ghosts,  must  hie  away  ; 

Tis  the  day. 
Rosy  morn  now  is  born ; 

Dark  thoughts  may  not  stay. 
Day  my  brain  from  foes  will  keep  ; 
Now,  my  soul,  I  sleep. 

THE  WOOING 

A  youth  went  faring  up  and  down, 

Alack  and  well-a-day. 
He  fared  him  to  the  market  town, 

Alack  and  well-a-day. 
And  there  he  met  a  maiden  fair, 
With  hazel  eyes  and  auburn  hair ; 
His  heart  went  from  him  then  and  there, 

Alack  and  well-a-day. 

She  posies  sold  right  merrily, 

Alack  and  well-a-day ; 
But  not  a  flower  was  fair  as  she, 

Alack  and  well-a-day. 
He  bought  a  rose  and  sighed  a  sigh, 
"  Ah,  dearest  maiden,  would  that  I 
Might  dare  the  seller  too  to  buy !  " 

Alack  and  well-a-day. 

She  tossed  her  head,  the  coy  coquette, 

Alack  and  well-a-day. 
"  I'm  not,  sir,  in  the  market.yet," 

Alack  and  well-a-day. 
"  Your  love  must  cool  upon  a  shelf; 
Tho'  much  I  sell  for  gold  and  pelf, 
I'm  yet  too  young  to  sell  myself," 

Alack  and  well-a-day. 

The  youth  was  filled  with  sorrow  sore, 

Alack  and  well-a-day ; 
And  looked  he  at  the  maid  once  more, 

Alack  and  well-a-day. 
Then  loud  he  cried,  "  Fair  maiden,  if 
Too  young  to  sell,  now  as  I  live, 
You're  not  too  young  yourself  to  give," 

Alack  and  well-a-day. 


The  little  maid  cast  down  her  eyes, 

Alack  and  well-a-day, 
And  many  a  flush  began  to  rise, 

Alack  and  well-a-day. 
"  Why,  since  you  are  so  bold,"  she  said, 
"  I  doubt  not  you  are  highly  bred, 
So  take  me  !  "  and  the  twain  were  wed, 

Alack  and  well-a-day. 


MERRY  AUTUMN 

It's  all  a  farce, — these  tales  they  tell 

About  the  breezes  sighing, 
And  moans  astir  o'er  field  and  d  ;11, 

Because  the  year  is  dying. 

Such  principles  are  most  absurd, — 
I  care  not  who  first  taught  'em ; 

There's  nothing  known  to  beast  or  bird 
To  make  a  solemn  autumn. 

In  solemn  times,  when  grief  holds  sway 
With  countenance  distressing, 

You'll  note  the  more  of  black  and  gray 
Will  then  be  used  in  dressing. 

Now  purple  tints  are  all  around ; 

The  sky  is  blue  and  mellow ; 
And  e'en  the  grasses  turn  the  ground 

From  modest  green  to  yellow. 

The  seed  burrs  all  with  laughter  crack 
On  featherweed  and  jimson ; 

And   leaves  that  should  be  dressed  in 

black 
Are  all  decked  out  in  crimson. 

A  butterfly  goes  winging  by ; 

A  singing  bird  comes  after  ; 
And  Nature,  all  from  earth  to  sky, 

Is  bubbling  o'er  with  laughter. 

The  ripples  wimple  on  the  rills, 
Like  sparkling  little  lasses ; 

The  sunlight  runs  along  the  hills, 
And  laughs  among  the  grasses. 

The  earth  is  just  so  full  of  fun 

It  really  can't  contain  it ; 
And  streams  of  mirth  so  freely  run 

The  heavens  seem  to  rain  it. 


174 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


Don't  talk  to  me  of  solemn  days 
In  autumn's  time  of  splendor, 

Because  the  sun  shows  fewer  rays, 
And  these  grow  slant  and  slender. 

Why,  it's  the  climax  of  the  year, — 
The  highest  time  of  living !  — 

Till  naturally  its  bursting  cheer 
Just  melts  into  thanksgiving. 

BALLAD 

I  know  my  love  is  true. 

And  oh  the  day  is  fair. 
The  sky  is  clear  and  blue, 
The  flowers  are  rich  of  hue, 

The  air  I  breathe  is  rare, 

I  have  no  grief  or  care  ; 
For  my  own  love  is  true, 

And  oh  the  day  is  fair. 

My  love  is  false  I  find, 

And  oh  the  day  is  dark. 
Blows  sadly  down  the  wind, 
While  sorrow  holds  my  mind  ; 

I  do  not  hear  the  lark, 

For  quenched  is  life's  dear  spark,— 
My  love  is  false  I  find, 

And  oh  the  day  is  dark ! 

For  love  doth  make  the  day 
Or  dark  or  doubly  bright ; 

Her  beams  along  the  way 

Dispel  the  gloom  and  gray. 
She  lives  and  all  is  bright, 
She  dies  and  life  is  night. 

For  love  doth  make  the  day, 
Or  dark  or  doubly  bright. 

THE  CHANGE  HAS  COME 

The  change  has  come,  and  Helen  sleeps  — 
Not  sleeps ;  but  wakes  to  greater  deeps 
Of  wisdom,  glory,  truth,  and  light, 
Than  ever  blessed  her  seeking  sight, 
In  this  low,  long,  lethargic  night, 
Worn  out  with  strife 
Which  men  call  life. 

The  change  has  come,  and  who  would  say 
"  I  would  it  were  not  come  to-day  "  ? 


What  were  the  respite  till  to-morrow  ? 
Postponement  of  a  certain  sorrow, 
From  which   each   passing   day  would 
borrow ! 

Let  grief  be  dumb, 

The  change  has  come. 


COMPARISON 

The  sky  of  brightest  gray  seems  dark 
To  one  whose  sky  was  ever  white. 

To  one  who  never  knew  a  spark, 
Thro'  all  his  life,  of  love  or  light, 
The  grayest  cloud  seems  over- bright. 

The  robin  sounds  a  beggar's  note 

Where  one  the  nightingale  has  heard, 

But  he  for  whom  no  silver  throat 
Its  liquid  music  ever  stirred, 
Deems  robin  still  the  sweetest  bird. 


DISCOVERED 

Seen  you  down  at  chu'ch  las'  night, 

Nevah  min',  Miss  Lucy. 
What  I  mean  ?  oh,  dat's  all  right, 

Nevah  min',  Miss  Lucy. 
You  was  sma't  ez  sma't  could  be, 
But  you  couldn't  hide  f 'om  me. 
Ain't  I  got  two  eyes  to  see ! 

Nevah  min',  Miss  Lucy. 

Guess  you  thought  you's  awful  keen  ; 

Nevah  min',  Miss  Lucy. 
Evahthing  you  done,  I  seen  ; 

Nevah  min',  Miss  Lucy. 
Seen  him  tek  yo'  ahm  jes'  so, 
When  he  got  outside  de  do' — 
Oh,  I  know  dat  man's  yo'  beau ! 

Nevah  min',  Miss  Lucy. 

Say  now,  honey,  wha'd  he  say  ?  — 

Nevah  min',  Miss  Lucy ! 
Keep  yo'  secrets — dat's  yo'  way  — 

Nevah  min',  Miss  Lucy. 
Won't  tell  me  an'  I'm  yo'  pal  — 
I'm  gwine  tell  his  othah  gal,  — 
Know  huh,  too,  huh  name  is  Sal ; 

Nevah  min',  Miss  Lucy ! 


OF  PAUL    LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


175 


DISAPPOINTED 

An  old  man  planted  and  dug  and  tended, 
Toiling  in  joy  from  dew  to  dew ; 

The  sun  was  kind,  and  the  rain  befriended  ; 
Fine  grew  his  orchard  and  fair  to  view. 

Then  he  said:  "I  will  quiet  my  thrifty 
fears, 

For  here  is  fruit  for  my  failing  years." 

But  even  then  the  storm-clo'  Is  gathered, 

Swallowing  up  the  azure  ^Ky; 
The    sweeping   winds    into   white    foam 

lathered 

The  placid  breast  of  the  bay,  hard  by ; 
Then  the  spirits  that  raged  in  the  dark- 
ened air 
Swept  o'er  his  orchard  and  left  it  bare. 

The  old  man  stood  in  the  rain,  uncaring, 

Viewing  the  place  the  storm  had  swept ; 
And  then  with  a  cry  from  his  soul  despair- 
ing, 
He  bowed  him  down  to  the  earth  and 

wept. 
But  a  voice  cried  aldud  from  the  driving 

rain; 
"  Arise,  old  man,  and  plant  again  !  " 

INVITATION  TO  LOVE 

Come  when  the  nights  are  bright  with 
stars 

Or  when  the  moon  is  mellow ; 
Come  when  the  sun  his  golden  bars 

Drops  on  the  hay-field  yellow. 
Come  in  the  twilight  soft  and  gray, 
Come  in  the  night  or  come  in  the  day, 
Come,  O  Love,  whene'er  you  may, 

And  you  are  welcome,  welcome. 

You  are  sweet,  O  Love,  dear  Love, 
You  are  soft  as  the  nesting  dove. 
Come  to  my  heart  and  bring  it  rest 
As  the  bird  flies  home  to  its  welcome  nest. 

Come  when  my  heart  is  full  of  grief 

Or  when  my  heart  is  merry ; 
Come  with  the  falling  of  the  leaf 

Or  with  the  redd'ning  cherry. 
Come  when  the  year's  first  blossom  blows, 
Come  when  the  summer  gleams  and  glows, 


Come  with  the  winter's  drifting  snows, 
And  you  are  welcome,  welcome. 

HE  HAD  HIS  DREAM 

He  had  his  dream,  and  all  through  life, 
Worked  up  to  it  through  toil  and  strife. 
Afloat  fore'er  before  his  eyes, 
It  colored  for  him  all  his  skies : 

The  storm-cloud  dark 

Above  his  bark, 

The  calm  and  listless  vault  of  blue 
Took  on  its  hopeful  hue, 
It  tinctured  every  passing  beam  — 

He  had  his  dream. 

He  labored  hard  and  failed  at  last, 
His  sails  too  weak  to  bear  the  blast, 
The  raging  tempests  tore  away 
And  sent  his  beating  bark  astray. 

But  what  cared  he 

For  wind  or  sea ! 

He  said,  "  The  tempest  will  be  short, 
My  bark  will  come  to  port." 
He  saw  through  every  cloud  a  gleam  — 

He  had  his  dream. 

GOOD-NIGHT 

The  lark  is  silent  in  his  nest, 

The  breeze  is  sighingoin  its  flight, 

Sleep,  Love,  and  peaceful  be  thy  rest. 
Good-night,  my  love,  good-night,  good- 
night. 

Sweet  dreams  attend  thee  in  thy  sleep, 
To  soothe  thy  rest  till  morning's  light, 

And  angels  round  thee  vigil  keep. 

Good-night,  my  love,  good-night,  good- 
night. 

Sleep  well,  my  love,  on  night's  dark  breast, 
And  ease  thy  soul  with  slumber  bright ; 

Be  joy  but  thine  and  I  am  blest. 

Good-night,  my  love,  good-night,  good- 
night. 


A  COQUETTE  CONQUERED 

Yes,  my  ha't's  ez  ha'd  ez  stone  — 
Go  'way,  Sam,  an'  lemme  'lone. 


176 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


No ;  I  ain't  gwine  change  my  min* — 
Ain't  gwine  ma'y  you — nuffin'  de  kin'. 

Phiny  loves  you  true  an'  deah  ? 
Go  ma'y  Phiny ;  whut  I  keer  ? 
Oh,  you  needn't  mou'n  an'  cry  — 
I  don't  keer  how  soon  you  die. 

Got  a  present !     Whut  you  got  ? 
SomePn  fu'  de  pan  er  pot ! 
Huh !  yo'  sass  do  sholy  beat  — 
Think  I  don't  git  'nough  to  eat  ? 

Whut's  dat  un'neaf  yo'  coat  ? 
Looks  des  lak  a  little  shoat. 
'Tain't  no  possum  !     Bless  de  Lamb ! 
Yes,  it  is,  you  rascal,  Sam  ! 

Gin  it  to  me ;  whut  you  say  ? 
Ain't  you  sma't  now !     Oh,  go  'way ! 
Possum  do  look  mighty  nice, 
But  you  ax  too  big  a  price. 

Tell  me,  is  you  talkin'  true, 

Dat's  de  gal's  whut  ma'ies  you  ? 

Come  back,  Sam ;  now  whah's  you  gwine? 

Co'se  you  knows  dat  possum's  mine  ! 


NORA:  A  SERENADE 

Ah,  Nora,  my  Ndra,  the  light  fades  away, 
While  Night  like  a  spirit  steals  up  o'er 

the  hills ; 
The  thrush  from  his  tree  where  he  chanted 

all  day, 

No  longer  his  music  in  ecstasy  trills. 
Then,  Nora,  be  near  me;   thy  presence 

doth  cheer  me,  . 
Thine  eye  hath  a  gleam  that  is  truer 

than  gold. 
I  cannot  but  love  thee ;  so  do  not  reprove 

me, 

If  the    strength  of  my  passion  should 
make  me  too  bold. 

Nora,  pride  of  my  heart, — 

Rosy  cheeks,  cherry  lips,  sparkling  with 

glee, — 
Wake  from  thy  slumbers,  wherever  thou 

art; 
Wake  from  thy  slumbers  to  me. 


Ah,  Nora,  my  Nora,  there's  love  in  the 

air,-— 
It  stirs  in  the  numbers  that  thrill  in  my 

brain ; 
Oh,  sweet,  sweet  is  love  with  its  mingling 

of  care, 
Though  joy  travels  only  a  step  before 

pain. 
Be  roused  from  thy  slumbers  and  list  to 

my  m  nbers ; 
My  heart  i.  poured  out  in  this  song  unto 

thee. 
Oh,  be  thou  not  cruel,  thou  treasure,  thou 

jewel; 

Turn    thine    ear  to   my   pleading  and 
hearken  to  me. 


OCTOBER 

October  is  the  treasurer  of  the  year, 

And  all  the  months  pay  bounty  to  her 

store ; 
The  fields  and  orchards  still  their  tribute 

bear, 
And  fill  her  brimming  coffers  more  and 

more. 

But  she,  with  youthful  lavishness, 
Spends  all  her  wealth  in  gaudy  dress, 
And  decks  herself  in  garments  bold 
Of  scarlet,  purple,  red,  and  gold. 

She  heedeth  not  how  swift  the  hours  fly, 
But  smiles   and   sings  her   happy    life 
along ; 

She  only  sees  above  a  shining  sky ; 

She   only   hears   the  breezes'  voice   in 
song. 

Her  garments  trail  the  woodlands  through. 

And  gather  pearls  of  early  dew 
That  sparkle,  till  the  roguish  Sun 
Creeps  up  and  steals  them  every  one. 

But  what  cares  she  that  jewels  should  be 

lost, 
When  all  of  Nature's  bounteous  wealth 

is  hers  ? 
Though  princely  fortunes  may  have  been 

their  cost, 

Not  one  regret  her  calm  demeanor  stirs. 
Whole-hearted,  happy,  careless,  free, 
She  lives  her  life  out  joyously, 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


177 


Nor  cares  when  Frost  stalks  o'er  her  way 
And  turns  her  auburn  locks  to  gray. 

A  SUMMER'S  NIGHT. 

The  night  is  dewy  as  a  maiden's  mouth, 
The  skies  are  bright  as  are  a  maiden's 

eyes, 
Soft  as  a  maiden's  breath  the  wind  that 

flies 
Up  from  the  perfumed  bosom  of  the  South. 

Like  sentinels,  the  pines  stand  in  the  park ; 
And  hither  hastening,  like   rakes  that 

roam, 

With  lamps  to  light  their  wayward  foot- 
steps home, 

The  fireflies    come   stagg'ring  down   the 
dark. 

SHIPS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT 

Out  in  the  sky  the  great  dark  clouds  are 

massing ; 

I  look  far  out  into  the  pregnant  night, 
Where  I  can  hear  a  solemn  booming  gun 
And   catch  the  gleaming  of  a  random 

light, 

That  tells  me  that  the  ship  I  seek  is  pass- 
ing, passing. 

My  tearful  eyes  my  soul's  deep  hurt  are 

glassing ; 
For  I  would  hail  and  check  that  ship  of 

ships. 

I  stretch   my  hands  imploring,  cry  aloud, 
My  voice  falls  dead  a  foot  from  mine 

own  lips, 

And  but  its  ghost  doth  reach  that  vessel, 
passing,  passing. 

O  Earth,  O  Sky,  O  Ocean,  both  surpassing, 
O  heart  of  mine,  O  soul  that  dreads  the 

dark! 

Is  there  no  hope  for  me  ?    Is  there  no  way 
That  I  may  sight  and  check  that  speed- 
ing bark 

Which  out  of  sight  and  sound  is  passing, 
passing  ? 

THE  DELINQUENT 

Goo'-by,  Jinks,  I  got  to  hump, 
Got  to  mek  dis  pony  jump ; 


See  dat  sun  a-goin'  down 
'N*  me  a-foolin'  hyeah  in  town ! 
Git  up,  Suke — go  long ! 

Guess  Mirandy'll  think  FS  tight, 
Me  not  home  an'  comin'  on  night. 
What's  dat  stan'in'  by  de  fence  ? 
Pshaw  !  why  don't  I  lu'n  some  sense  ? 
Git  up,  Suke — go  long ! 

Guess  I  spent  down  dah  at  Jinks' 
Mos'  a  dollah  fur  de  drinks. 
Bless  yo'r  soul,  you  see  dat  star  ? 
Lawd,  but  won't  Mirandy  rar  ? 
Git  up,  Suke — go  long  ! 

Went  dis  mo'nin',  hyeah  it's  night, 
Dah's  de  cabin  dah  in  sight. 
Who's  dat  stan'in'  in  de  do'  ? 
Dat  must  be  Mirandy,  sho', 
Git  up,  Suke — go  long ! 

Got  de  close-stick  in  huh  han', 
Dat  look  funny,  goodness  Ian', 
Sakes  alibe,  but  she  look  glum  ! 
Hyeah,  Mirandy,  hyeah  I  come  ! 

Git  up,  Suke — go  long ! 
Ef  't  hadn't  a  be'n  fur  you,  you  slow  ole 
fool,  I'd  a'  be'n  home  long  fo'  now  ! 

DAWN 

An  angel,  robed  in  spotless  white, 
Bent  down  and  kissed  the  sleeping  Night. 
Night  woke  to  blush  ;  the  sprite  was  gone. 
Men  saw  the  blush  and  called  it  Dawn. 

A  DROWSY  DAY 

This  poem,  written  before  its  author 
was  twenty  years  of  age,  was  greatly  ad- 
mired and  brought  him  many  encourag- 
ing letters.  Among  these  was  a  note 
from  James  Whitcomb  Riley,  mentioned 
otherwhere  in  this  volume,  in  which  Mr. 
Riley  says  : 

"  Certainly  your  gift  as  evidenced  by 
this  «  Drowsy  Day '  poem  alone  is  a  superior 
one,  and  therefore  its  fortunate  possessor 
should  bear  it  with  a  becoming  sense  of 
gratitude  and  meekness,  always  feeling 


178 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


that  for  any  resultant  good  God  is  the 
glory,  the  singer  his  very  humble  instru- 
ment. Already  you  have  many  friends, 
and  can  have  thousands  more  by  being 
simply  honest,  unaffected  and  just  to  your- 
self and  the  high  source  of  your  endow- 
ment." 

The  air  is  dark,  the  sky  is  gray, 
The  misty  shadows  come  and  go, 

And  here  within  my  dusky  room 

Each  chair  looks  ghostly  in  the  gloom. 
Outside  the  rain  falls  cold  and  slow  — 

Half-stinging  drops,  half-blinding  spray. 

Each  slightest  sound  is  magnified, 
For  drowsy  quiet  holds  her  reign  ; 

The  burnt  stick  in  the  fireplace  breaks, 

The  nodding  cat  with  start  awakes, 
And  then  to  sleep  drops  off  again, 

Unheeding  Towser  at  her  side. 

I  look  far  out  across  the  lawn, 
Where  huddled  stand  the  silly  sheep  ; 

My  work  lies  idle  at  my  hands, 

My  thoughts  fly  out  like  scattered  strands 
Of  thread,  and  on  the  verge  of  sleep  — 

Still  half  awake — I  dream  and  yawn. 

What  spirits  rise  before  my  eyes ! 

How  various  of  kind  and  form  ! 
Sweet  memories  of  days  long  past, 
The  dreams  of  youth  that  could  not  last, 

Each  smiling  calm,  each  raging  storm, 
That  swept  across  my  early  skies. 

Half  seen,  the  bare,  gaunt-fingered  boughs 
Before  my  window  sweep  and  sway, 

And  chafe  in  tortures  of  unrest. 

My  chin  sinks  down  upon  my  breast ; 
I  cannot  work  on  such  a  day, 

But  only  sit  and  dream  and  drowse. 

DIRGE 

Place  this  bunch  of  mignonette 

In  her  cold,  dead  hand  ; 
When  the  golden  sun  is  set, 

Where  the  poplars  stand, 
Bury  her  from  sun  and  day, 
Lay  my  little  love  away 
From  my  sight. 


She  was  like  a  modest  flower 

Blown  in  sunny  June, 
Warm  as  sun  at  noon's  high  hour, 

Chaster  than  the  moon. 
Ah,  her  day  was  brief  and  bright, 
Earth  has  lost  a  star  of  light ; 
She  is  dead. 

Softly  breathe  her  name  to  me, — 

Ah,  I  loved  her  so. 
Gentle  let  your  tribute  be ; 

None  may  better  know 
Her  true  worth  than  I  who  weep 
O'er  her  as  she  lies  asleep  — 
Soft  asleep. 

Lay  these  lilies  on  her  breast, 
They  are  not  more  white 

Than  the  soul  of  her,  at  rest 
'Neath  their  petals  bright. 

Chant  your  aves  soft  and  low, 

Solemn  be  your  tread  and  slow, — 
She  is  dead. 

Lay  her  here  beneath  the  grass, 
Cool  and  green  and  sweet, 

Where  the  gentle  brook  may  pass 
Crooning  at  her  feet. 

Nature's  bards  shall  come  and  sing, 

And  the  fairest  flowers  shall  spring 
Where  she  lies. 

Safe  above  the  water's  swirl, 
She  has  crossed  the  bar  ; 

Earth  has  lost  a  precious  pearl, 
Heaven  has  gained  a  star, 

That  shall  ever  sing  and  shine, 

Till  it  quells  this  grief  of  mine 
For  my  love. 

HYMN 

When  storms  arise 
And  dark'ning  skies 

About  me  threat'ning  lower, 
To  thee,  O  Lord,  I  raise  mine  eyes, 
To  thee  my  tortured  spirit  flies 

For  solace  in  that  hour. 

Thy  mighty  arm 
Will  let  no  harm 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


179 


Come  near  me  nor  befall  me ; 
Thy  voice  shall  quiet  my  alarm, 
When  life's  great  battle  waxeth  warm 

No  foeman  shall  appall  me. 

Upon  thy  breast 
Secure  I  rest, 

From  sorrow  and  vexation ; 
No  more  by  sinful  cares  oppressed, 
But  in  thy  presence  ever  blest, 

O  God  of  my  salvation. 


PREPARATION 

The  little  bird  sits  in  the  nest  and  sings 
A  shy,  soft  song  to  the  morning  light ; 
And    it  flutters   a   little   and   prunes   its 

wings. 

The  song  is  halting  and  poor  and  brief, 
And   the  fluttering  wings  scarce  stir  a 

leaf; 

But  the  note  is  a  prelude  to  sweeter  things, 
And  the  busy  bill  and  the  flutter  slight 
Are   proving  the  wings  for  a  bolder 
flight! 

THE  SECRET 

What  says  the  wind  to  the  waving  trees  ? 

What  says  the  wave  to  the  river  ? 
What  means  the  sigh  in  the  passing  breeze  ? 

Why  do  the  rushes  quiver  ? 
Have  you  not  heard  the  fainting  cry 
Of  the  flowers  that  said  "  Good-bye,  good- 
bye"? 

List  how  the  gray  dove  moans  and  grieves 

Under  the  woodland  cover ; 
List  to  the  drift  of  the  falling  leaves, 

List  to  the  wail  of  the  lover. 
Have  you  not  caught  the  message  heard 
Already  by  wave  and  breeze  and  bird  ? 

Come,  come  away  to  the  river's  bank, 

Come  in  the  early  morning ; 
Come  when  the  grass  with  dew  is  dank, 

There  you  will  find  the  warning  — 
A  hint  in  the  kiss  of  the  quickening  air 
Of  the  secret  that  birds  and  breezes  bear. 
11 


THE  WIND  AND  THE  SEA 

I  stood  by  the  shore  at  the  death  of  day, 

As  the  sun  sank  flaming  red ; 
And  the  face  of  the  waters  that  spread 
away 

Was  as  gray  as  the  face  of  the  dead. 

And  I  heard  the  cry  of  the  wanton  sea 
And  the  moan  of  the  wailing  wind ; 

For  love's  sweet  pain  in  his  heart  had  he, 
But  the  gray  old  sea  had  sinned. 

The  wind  was  young  and  the  sea  was  old 
But  their  cries  went  up  together ; 

The  wind  was  warm  and  the  sea  was  cold, 
For  age  makes  wintry  weather. 

So  they  cried  aloud  and  they  wept  amain 
Till  the  sky  grew  dark  to  hear  it ; 

And  out  of  its  folds  crept  the  misty  rain, 
In  its  shroud,  like  a  troubled  spirit. 

For  the  wind  was  wild  with  a  hopeless 
love, 

And  the  sea  was  sad  at  heart 
At  many  a  crime  that  he  wot  of, 

Wherein  he  had  played  his  part. 

He  thought  of  the  gallant  ships  gone  down 
By  the  will  of  his  wicked  waves ; 

And  he  thought  how  the  churchyard  in  the 

town 
Held  the  sea-made  widows'  graves. 

The  wild  wind  thought  of  the  love  he  had 
left 

Afar  in  an  Eastern  land, 
And  he  longed,  as  long  the  much  bereft, 

For  the  touch  of  her  perfumed  hand. 

In  his  winding  wail  and  his  deep-heaved 

sigh 

His  aching  grief  found  vent ; 
While  the  sea  looked  up  at  the  bending 

sky 
And  murmured :  "  I  repent." 

But  e'en  as  he  spoke,  a  ship  came  by, 
That  bravely  ploughed  the  main, 

And  a  light  came  into  the  sea's  green  eye, 
And  his  heart  grew  hard  again. 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


Then  he   spoke   to  the  wind :   "  Friend, 
seest  thou  not 

Yon  vessel  is  eastward  bound  ? 
Pray  speed  with  it  to  the  happy  spot 

Where  thy  loved  one  may  be  found." 

And  the  wind  rose  up  in  a  dear  delight, 
And  after  the  good  ship  sped  ; 

But  the  crafty  sea  by  his  wicked  might 
Kept  the  vessel  ever  ahead. 

Till  the  wind  grew  fierce  in  his  despair, 
And  white  on  the  brow  and  lip. 

He  tore  his  garments  and  tore  his  hair, 
And  fell  on  the  flying  ship. 

And  the  ship  went  down,  for  a  rock  was 
there, 

And  the  sailless  sea  loomed  black  ; 
While  burdened  again  with  dole  and  care, 

The  wind  came  moaning  back. 

And  still  he  moans  from  his  bosom  hot 

•  Where  his  raging  grief  lies  pent, 
And  ever  when  the  ships  come  not, 
The  sea  says :  "  I  repent." 


THE  DESERTED  PLANTATION 

Oh,    de    grubbin'-hoe's    a-rustin*    in    de 

co'nah, 
An'   de   plow's  a-tumblin'  down  in  de 

fiel', 
While   de   whippo'will's   a-wailin'  lak   a 

mou'nah 

When  his  stubbo'n  hea't  is  tryin'  ha'd  to 
yiel'. 

In  de   furrers  whah  de   co'n   was   allus 

wavin', 
Now  de  weeds  is  growin'  green  an'  rank 

an'  tall ; 
An'  de  s  wallers  roun'  de  whole  place  is 

a-bravin' 

Lak  dey  thought  deir  folks  had  allus 
owned  it  all. 

An*  de  big  house  Stan's  all  quiet  lak  an' 

solemn, 

Not  a  blessed  soul  in  pa'lor,  po'ch,  er 
lawn; 


Not  a  guest,  ner  not  a  ca'iage  lef  to  haul 

'em, 

Fu'  de  ones  dat  tu'ned  de  latch-string 
out  air  gone. 


An'  de  banjo's  voice  is  silent  in  de  qua'ters, 
D'ain't  a  hymn  ner  co'n-song  ringin'  in 

de  air; 

But  de  murmur  of  a  branch's  passin'  waters 
Is  de  only  soun'  dat  breks  de  stillness 
dere. 


Whah's   de  da'kies,  dem  dat  used  to  be 

a  dancin* 

Evry  night  befo'  de  ole  cabin  do'  ? 
Whah's  de    chillun,  dem  dat  used  to  be 

a-prancin* 
Er  a-rollin'  in  de  san'  er  on  de  flo'  ? 

Whah's   ole'  Uncle    Mordecai  an'    Uncle 

Aaron  ? 
Whah's  Aunt  Doshy,  Sam,  an'  Kit,  an' 

all  de  res'  ? 
Whah's  ole  Tom  de  da'ky  fiddlah,  how's 

he  farin'? 

Whah's   de   gals   dat  used  to  sing  an' 
dance  de  bes'  ? 

Gone !    not  one  o'  dem  is  lef  to  tell  de 

story ; 
Dey  have  lef  de  deah  ole  place  to  fall 

away. 

Couldn't  one  o'  dem  dat  seed  it  in  its  glory 
Stay  to  watch  it  in  de  hour  of  decay  ? 

Dey  have    lef   de  ole  plantation  to  de 

swallers, 

But  it  hoi's  in  me  a  lover  till  de  las' ; 
Fu'  I  fin'  hyeah  in  de  memory  dat  follers 
All  dat  loved  me  an'  dat  I  loved  in  de 
pas'. 

So  I'll  stay  an'  watch  de  deah  ole  place 

an'  tend  it 

Ez  I  used  to  in  de  happy  days  gone  by. 
'Twell  de  othah  Mastah  thinks  it's  time  to 

end  it, 
An'  calls  me  to  my  qua'ters  in  de  sky. 


DE  PLOW'S  A-TUMBLIN'  DOWN  IN  DE  KIEL' 


-_ 


O'ER  THE  FIELDS  WITH  HEAVY  TREAD 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


183 


A  CORN-SONG 

On  the  wide  veranda  white, 
In  the  purple  failing  light, 
Sits  the  master  while  the  sun  is  slowly 

burning ; 

And  his  dreamy  thoughts  are  drowned 
In  the  softly  flowing  sound 
Of  the  corn-songs  of  the  field-hands  slow 
returning. 

Oh,  we  hoe  de  co'n 
Since  de  ehly  mo'n  ; 
Now  de  sinkin'  sun 
Says  de  day  is  done. 

O'er  the  fields  with  heavy  tread, 
Light  of  heart  and  high  of  head, 
Though  the  halting  steps  be  labored,  slow, 

and  weary ; 

Still  the  spirits  brave  and  strong 
Find  a  comforter  in  song, 
And  their  corn  song  rises  ever  loud  and 
cheery. 

Oh,  we  hoe  de  co'n 
Since  de  ehly  mo'n  ; 
Now  de  sinkin'  sun 
Says  de  day  is  done. 

To  the  master  in  his  seat, 
Comes  the  burden,  full  and  sweet, 
Of   the    mellow    minor    music    growing 

clearer, 

As  the  toilers  raise  the  hymn, 
Thro'  the  silence  dusk  and  dim, 
To    the    cabin's   restful   shelter   drawing 
nearer. 

Oh,  we  hoe  de  co'n 
Since  de  ehly  mo'n ; 
Now  de  sinkin'  sun 
Says  de  day  is  done. 

And  a  tear  is  in  the  eye 

Of  the  master  sitting  by, 
As  he  listens  to  the  echoes  low-replying 

To  the  music's  fading  calls 

As  it  faints  away  and  falls 
Into  silence,  deep  within  the  cabin  dying. 


Oh,  we  hoe  de  co'n 
Since  de  ehly  mo'n ; 
Now  de  sinkin'  sun 
Says  de  day  is  done. 

RIDING  TO  TOWN 

When  labor  is  light  and  the  morning  is 

fair, 

I  find  it  a  pleasure  beyond  all  compare 
To  hitch  up  my  nag  and  go  hurrying  down 
And  take  Katie  May  for  a  ride  into  town ; 
For  bumpety-bump  goes  the  wagon, 

But  tra-la-la-la  our  lay. 
There's  joy  in  a  song  as  we  rattle  along 
In  the  light  of  the  glorious  day. 

A    coach   would    be   fine,   but  a   spring 

wagon's  good ; 
My  jeans  are  a  match  for  Kate's  gingham 

and  hood ; 
The  hills  take  us  up  and  the  vales  take  us 

down, 
But  what  matters  that  ?  we  are  riding  to 

town, 
And  bumpety-bump  goes  the  wagon, 

But  tra-la-la-la  sing  we. 
There's  never  a  care  may  live  in  the  air 
That  is  filled  with  the  breath  of  our 
glee. 

And  after  we've  started,  there's  naught 

can  repress 

The  thrill  of  our  hearts  in  their  wild  hap- 
piness ; 
The  heavens  may  smile  or  the  heavens 

may  frown, 
And  it's  all  one  to  us  when  we're  riding  to 

town. 
For  bumpety-bump  goes  the  wagon, 

But  tra-la-la-la  we  shout, 
For  our  hearts  they  are  clear  and  there's 

nothing  to  fear, 
And  we've  never  a  pain  nor  a  doubt. 

The  wagon  is  weak  and  the  roadway  is 

rough, 

And  tho'  it  is  long  it  is  not  long  enough, 
For  mid  all  my  ecstasies  this  is  the  crown 
To  sit  beside  Katie  and  ride  into  town, 
When  bumpety-bump  goes  the  wagon, 
But  tra-la-la-la  our  song ; 


184 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


And  if  I  had  my  way,  I'd  be  willing  to 

pay 
If  the  road  could  be  made  twice  as  long. 

WE  WEAR  THE  MASK 

We  wear  the  mask  that  grins  and  lies, 
It  hides  our  cheeks  and  shades  our  eyes, — 
This  debt  we  pay  to  human  guile ; 
With  torn  and  bleeding  hearts  we  smile, 
And  mouth  with  myriad  subtleties. 

Why  should  the  world  be  over-wise, 
In  counting  all  our  tears  and  sighs  ? 
Nay,  let  them  only  see  us,  while 
We  wear  the  mask. 

We  smile,  but,  O  great  Christ,  our  cries 
To  thee  from  tortured  souls  arise. 
We  sing,  but  oh  the  clay  is  vile 
Beneath  our  feet,  and  long  the  mile  ; 
But  let  the  world  dream  otherwise, 
We  wear  the  mask ! 


THE  MEADOW  LARK 

Though  the  winds  be  dank, 
And  the  sky  be  sober, 
And  the  grieving  Day 
In  a  mantle  gray 

Hath  let  her  waiting  maiden  robe  her, — 
All  the  fields  along 
I  can  hear  the  song 
Of  the  meadow  lark, 

As  she  flits  and  flutters, 

And  laughs  at  the  thunder  when  it 

mutters.  . 

O  happy  bird,  of  heart  most  gay 
To  sing  when  skies  are  gray ! 

When  the  clouds  are  full, 
And  the  tempest  master 
Lets  the  loud  winds  sweep 
From  his  bosom  deep 
Like  heralds  of  some  dire  disaster, 
Then  the  heart  alone 
To  itself  makes  moan  ; 
And  the  songs  come  slow, 

While  the  tears  fall  fleeter, 
And  silence  than  song  by  far  seems 
sweeter. 


Oh,  few  are  they  along  the  way 
Who  sing  when  skies  are  gray ! 

ONE  LIFE 

Oh,  I  am  hurt  to  death,  my  Love  ; 

The   shafts  of  Fate   have   pierced  my 

striving  heart, 
And  I  am  sick  and  weary  of 

The  endless  pain  and  smart. 
My  soul  is  weary  of  the  strife, 
And  chafes  at  life,  and  chafes  at  life. 

Time  mocks  me  with  fair  promises  ; 

A  blooming  future  grows  a  barren  past, 
Like  rain  my  fair  full-blossomed  Irees 

Unburdened  in  the  blast. 
The  harvest  fails  on  grain  and  tree, 
Nor  comes  to  me,  nor  comes  to  me. 

The  stream  that  bears  my  hopes  abreast 
Turns  ever  from  my  way  its  pregnant 
tide. 

My  laden  boat,  torn  from  its  rest, 
Drifts  to  the  other  side. 

So  all  my  hopes  are  set  astray, 

And  drift  away,  and  drift  away. 

The  lark  sings  to  me  at  the  morn, 

And  near  me  wings  her  skyward-soaring 
flight; 

But  pleasure  dies  as  soon  as  born, 
The  owl  takes  up  the  night, 

And  night  seems  long  and  doubly  dark ; 

I  miss  the  lark,  I  miss  the  lark. 

Let  others  labor  as  they  may, 

I'll  sing  and  sigh  alone,  and  write  my 

line. 
Their  fate  is  theirs,  or  grave  or  gay, 

And  mine  shall  still  be  mine. 
I  know  the  world  holds  joy  and  glee, 
But  not  for  me, — 'tis  not  for  me. 

CHANGING  TIME 

The  cloud  looked  in  at  the  window. 
And  said  to  the  day,  "  Be  dark !  " 

And  the  roguish  rain  tapped  hard  on  the 

pane, 
To  stifle  the  song  of  the  lark. 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


185 


The  wind  sprang  up  in  the  tree  tops 
And  shrieked  with  a  voice  of  death, 

But  the  rough-voiced  breeze,  that  shook 

the  trees, 
Was  touched  with  a  violet's  breath. 

DEAD 

A  knock  is  at  her  door,  but  she  is  weak ; 
Strange    dews    have    washed    the    paint 

streaks  from  her  cheek ; 
She  does  not  rise,  but,  ah,  this  friend  is 

known, 

And  knows  that  he  will  find  her  all  alone. 
So  opens  he  the  door,  and  with  soft  tread 
Goes  straightway  to  the  richly  curtained 

bed. 

His  soft  hand  on  her  dewy  head  he  lays. 
A  strange  white  light  she  gives  him  for  his 

gaze. 

Then,  looking  on  the  glory  of  her  charms, 
He  crushes  her  resistless  in  his  arms. 

Stand  back !  look  not  upon  this  bold  em- 
brace, 

Nor  view  the  calmness  of  the  wanton's 
face; 

With  joy  unspeakable  and  'bated  breath, 

She  keeps  her  last,  long  liaison  with  death  ! 

*A  CONFIDENCE 

Uncle  John,  he  makes  me  tired ; 
Thinks  'at  he's  jest  so  all-fired 
Smart,  'at  he  kin  pick  up,  so, 
Ever'thing  he  wants  to  know. 
Tried  to  ketch  me  up  last  night, 
But  you  bet  I  wouldn't  bite. 
I  jest  kept  the  smoothes'  face, 
But  I  led  him  sich  a  chase, 
Couldn't  corner  me,  you  bet  — 
I  skipped  all  the  traps  he  set. 
Makin'  out  he  wan'ed  to  know 
Who  was  this  an'  that  girl's  beau ; 
So's  he'd  find  out,  don't  you  see, 
Who  was  goin'  'long  with  me. 
But  I  answers  jest  ez  sly, 
An'  I  never  winks  my  eye, 
Tell  he  hollers  with  a  whirl, 
*  Look  here,  ain't  you  got  a  girl  ?  " 
Y'  ought  'o  seen  me  spread  my  eyes, 
Like  he'd  took  me  by  surprise, 


An'  I  said,  "  Oh,  Uncle  John, 

Never  thought  o'havin'  one." 

An'  somehow  that  seemed  to  tickle 

Him  an'  he  shelled  out  a  nickel. 

Then  you  ought  to  seen  me  leave 

Jest  a-laffin'  in  my  sleeve. 

Fool  him — well,  I  guess  I  did ; 

He  ain't  on  to  this  here  kid. 

Got  a  girl !  well,  I  guess  yes, 

Got  a  dozen  more  or  less, 

But  I  got  one  reely  one, 

Not  no  foolin'  ner  no  fun ; 

Fur  I'm  sweet  on  her,  you  see, 

An'  I  ruther  guess  'at  she 

Must  be  kinder  sweet  on  me, 

So  we're  keepin'  company. 

Honest  Injun  !  this  is  true, 

Ever'  word  I'm  tellin'  you ! 

But  you  won't  be  sich  a  scab 

Ez  to  run  aroun'  an'  blab. 

Mebbe  'tain't  the  way  with  you, 

But  you  know  some  fellers  do. 

Spoils  a  girl  to  let  her  know 

'At  you  talk  about  her  so. 

Don't  you  know  her  ?  her  name's  Liz, 

Nicest  girl  in  town  she  is. 

Purty  ?  ah,  git  out,  you  gilly  — 

Liz  'ud  purt'  nigh  knock  you  silly. 

Y'  ought  'o  see  her  when  she's  dressed 

All  up  in  her  Sunday  best, 

All  the  fellers  nudgin'  me, 

An'  a-whisperin',  gemunee ! 

Betcher  life  'at  I  feel  proud 

When  she  passes  by  the  crowd. 

'T's  kinder  nice  to  be  a-goin' 

With  a  girl  'at  makes  some  showin' — 

One  you  know  'at  hain't  no  snide, 

Makes  you  feel  so  satisfied. 

An'  I'll  tell  you  she's  a  trump, 

Never  even  seen  her  jump 

Like  some  silly  girls  'ud  do, 

When  I'd  hide  and  holler  "  Boo !  " 

She'd  jest  laugh  an'  say  "  Git  out ! 

What  you  hollerin'  about  ?  " 

When  some  girls  'ud  have  a  fit 

That  'un  don't  git  skeered  a  bit, 

Never  makes  a  bit  o'  row 

When  she  sees  a  worm  er  cow. 

Them  kind's  few  an'  far  between ; 

Bravest  girl  I  ever  seen. 

Tell  you  'nuther  thing  she'll  do, 

Mebbe  you  won't  think  it's  true, 


1 86 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


But  if  she's  jest  got  a  dime 
She'll  go  halvers  ever'  time. 
Ah,  you  goose,  you  needn't  laff ; 
That's  the  kinder  girl  to  have. 
If  you  knowed  her  like  I  do, 
Guess  you'd  kinder  like  her  too. 
Tell  you  somep'n'  if  you'll  swear 
You  won't  tell  it  anywhere. 
Oh,  you  got  to  cross  yer  heart 
Earnest,  truly,  'fore  I  start. 
Well,  one  day  I  kissed  her  cheek ; 
Gee,  but  I  felt  cheap  an'  weak, 
'Cause  at  first  she  kinder  flared, 
'N',  gracious  goodness !  I  was  scared. 
But  I  needn't  been,  fer  la ! 
Why,  she  never  told  her  ma. 
That's  what  I  call  grit,  don't  you  ? 
Sich  a  girl's  worth  stickin'  to. 


PHYLLIS 

Phyllis,  ah,  Phyllis,  my  life  is  a  gray  day, 
Few  are  my  years,  but  my  griefs  are  not 

few, 

Ever  to  youth  should  each  day  be  a  May- 
day, 

Warm  wind  and  rose-breath  and   dia- 
monded dew  — 
Phyllis,  ah,  Phyllis,  my  life  is  a  gray  day. 

Oh,  for  the  sunlight  that  shines  on  a  May- 
day! 

Only  the  cloud  hangeth  over  my  life. 
Love  that  should  bring  me  youth's  hap- 
piest heyday 
Brings  me  but  seasons  of  sorrow  and 

strife ; 
Phyllis,  ah,  Phyllis,  my  life  is  a  gray  day. 

Sunshine  or  shadow,  or  gold  day  or  gray 

day, 

Life  must  be  lived  as  our  destinies  rule ; 

Leisure  or  labor  or  work  day  of  play  day  — 

Feasts  for  the  famous  and  fun  for  the 

fool; 
Phyllis,  ah,  Phyllis,  my  life  is  a  gray  day. 

RIGHT'S  SECURITY 

What  if  the  wind  do  howl  without, 
And  turn  the  creaking  weather-vane ; 


What  if  the  arrows  of  the  rain 
Do  beat  against  the  window-pane  ? 
Art  thou  not  armored  strong  and  fast 
Against  the  sallies  of  the  blast  ? 
Art  thou  not  sheltered  safe  and  well 
Against  the  flood's  insistent  swell  ? 

What  boots  it,  that  thou  stand'st  alone, 
And  laughest  in  the  battle's  face 
When  all  the  weak  have  fled  the  place 
And  let  their  feet  and  fears  keep  pace  ? 
Thou  wavest  still  thine  ensign,  high, 
And  shoutest  thy  loud  battle-cry ; 
Higher  than  e'er  the  tempest  roared, 
It  cleaves  the  silence  like  a  sword. 

Right  arms  and  armors,  too,  that  man 

Who  will  not  compromise  with  wrong ; 

Though  single,  he  must  front  the  throng. 

And  wage  the  battle  hard  and  long. 

Minorities,  since  time  began, 

Have  shown  the  better  side  of  man ; 

And  often  in  the  lists  of  Time 

One  man  has  made  a  cause  sublime  ! 


IF 

If  life  were  but  a  dream,  my  Love, 

And  death  the  waking  time  ; 
If  day  had  not  a  beam,  my  Love, 
And  night  had  not  a  rhyme, — 

A  barren,  barren  world  were  this 
Without  one  saving  gleam  ; 
I'd  only  ask  that  with  a  kiss 
You'd  wake  me  from  the  dream. 

If  dreaming  were  the  sum  of  days, 

And  loving  were  the  bane  ; 
If  battling  for  a  wreath  of  bays 
Could  soothe  a  heart  in  pain, — 

I'd  scorn  the  meed  of  battle's  might, 
All  other  aims  above 
I'd  choose  the  human's  higher  right, 
To  suffer  and  to  love  ! 


THE  SONG 

My  soul,  lost  in  the  music's  mist, 
Roamed,  rapt,  'neath  skies  of  amethyst. 
The  cheerless  streets  grew  summer  meads, 
The  Son  of  Phcebus  spurred  his  steeds, 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


187 


And,  wand'ring  down  the  mazy  tune, 
December  lost  its  way  in  June, 
While  from  a  verdant  vale  I  heard 
The  piping  of  a  love-lorn  bird. 

A  something  in  the  tender  strain 
Revived  an  old,  long  conquered  pain, 
And  as  in  depths  of  many  seas, 
My  heart  was  drowned  in  memories. 
The  tears  came  welling  to  my  eyes, 
Nor  could  I  ask  it  otherwise ; 
For,  oh  !  a  sweetness  seems  to  last 
Amid  the  dregs  of  sorrows  past. 

It  stirred  a  chord  that  here  of  late 
I'd  grown  to  think  could  not  vibrate. 
It  brought  me  back  the  trust  of  youth, 
The  world  again  was  joy  and  truth. 
And  Avice,  blooming  like  a  bride, 
Once  more  stood  trusting  at  my  side. 
But  still,  with  bosom  desolate, 
The  'lorn  bird  sang  to  find  his  mate. 

Then  there  are  trees,  and  lights  and  stars, 
The  silv'ry  tinkle  of  guitars ; 
And  throbs  again  as  throbbed  that  waltz, 
Before  I  knew  that  hearts  were  false. 
Then  like  a  cold  wave  on  a  shore, 
Comes  silence  and  she  sings  no  more. 
I  wake,  I  breathe,  I  think  again, 
And  walk  the  sordid  ways  of  men. 

SIGNS  OF  THE  TIMES 

Air  a-gittin'  cool  an'  coolah, 

Frost  a-comin'  in  de  night, 
Hicka'nuts  an'  wa'nuts  fallin', 

Possum  keepin'  out  o'  sight. 
Tu'key  struttin'  in  de  ba'nya'd, 

Nary  step  so  proud  ez  his  ; 
Keep  on  struttin',  Mistah  Tu'key, 

Yo'  do'  know  whut  time  it  is. 

Cidah  press  commence  a-squeakin' 

Eatin'  apples  sto'ed  away, 
Chillun  swa'min'  'roun'  lak  ho'nets, 

Huntin'  aigs  ermung  de  hay. 
Mistah  Tu'key  keep  on  gobblin* 

At  de  geese  a-flyin'  souf, 
Oomph !     dat    bird    do'   know   whut's 
comin' ; 

Ef  he  did  he'd  shet  his  mouf. 


Pumpkin  gittin'  good  an'  yallah 

Mek  me  open  up  my  eyes ; 
Seems  lak  it's  a-lookin'  at  me 

Jes'  a-la'in'  dah  sayin*  "  Pies." 
Tu'key  gobbler  gwine  'roun'  bio  win', 

Gwine  'roun'  gibbin*  sass  an'  slack ; 
Keep  on  talkin',  Mistah  Tu'key, 

You  ain't  seed  no  almanac. 


Fa'mer  walkin'  th'oo  de  ba'nya'd 

Seein'  how  things  is  comin'  on, 
Sees  ef  all  de  fowls  is  fatt'nin' — 

Good  times  comin'  sho's  you  bo'n. 
Hyeahs  dat  tu'key  gobbler  braggin', 

Den  his  face  break  in  a  smile  — 
Nebbah  min',  you  sassy  rascal, 

He's  gwine  nab  you  atter  while. 

Choppin*  suet  in  de  kitchen, 

Stonin'  raisins  in  de  hall, 
Beef  a-cookin'  fu*  de  mince  meat, 

Spices  groun' — I  smell  'em  all. 
Look  hyeah,  Tu'key,  stop  dat  gobblin', 

You  ain'  luned  de  sense  ob  feah, 
You  ol'  fool,  yo'  naik's  in  dangah, 

Do'  you  know  Thanksgibbin's  hyeah  ? 


WHY  FADES  A  DREAM? 

Why  fades  a  dream  ? 

An  iridescent  ray 
Flecked  in  between  the  tryst 

Of  night  and  day. 

Why  fades  a  dream  ?  — 
Of  consciousness  the  shade 
Wrought  out  by  lack  of  light  and  made 

Upon  life's  stream. 

Why  fades  a  dream  ? 


That  thought  may  thrive, 

So  fades  the  fleshless  dream  ; 
Lest  men  should  learn  to  trust 

The  things  that  seem. 

So  fades  a  dream, 
That  living  thought  may  grow 
And  like  a  waxing  star-beam  glow 

Upon  life's  stream  — 

So  fades  a  dream. 


1 88 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


THE  SPARROW 

A  little  bird,  with  plumage  brown, 
Beside  my  window  flutters  down, 
A  moment  chirps  its  little  strain, 
Then  taps  upon  my  window-pane, 
And  chirps  again,  and  hops  along, 
To  call  my  notice  to  its  song ; 
But  I  work  on,  nor  heed  its  lay, 
Till,  in  neglect,  it  flies  away./ 

So  birds  of  peace  and  hope  and  love 
Come  fluttering  earthward  from  above, 
To  settle  on  life's  window-sills, 
And  ease  our  load  of  earthly  ills ; 
But  we,  in  traffic's  rush  and  din 
Too  deep  engaged  to  let  them  in, 
With  deadened  heart  and  sense  plod  on, 
Nor  know  our  loss  till  they  are  gone. 


SPEAKIN'  0'  CHRISTMAS 

Breezes  blowin'  middlin'  brisk, 
Snow-flakes  thro*  the  air  a-whisk, 
Fallin'  kind  o'  soft  an'  light, 
Not  enough  to  make  things  white, 
But  jest  sorter  siftin*  down 
So's  to  cover  up  the  brown 
Of  the  dark  world's  rugged  ways 
'N'  make  things  look  like  holidays. 
Not  smoothed  over,  but  jest  specked, 
Sorter  strainin'  fur  effect, 
An*  not  quite  a-gittin'  through 
What  it  started  in  to  do. 
Mercy  sakes  !  it  does  seem  queer 
Christmas  day  is  'most  nigh  here. 
Somehow  it  don't  seem  to  me 
Christmas  like  it  used  to  be, — 
Christmas  with  its  ice  an'  snow, 
Christmas  of  the  long  ago. 
You  could  feel  its  stir  an'  hum 
Weeks  an'  weeks  before  it  come  ; 
Somethin'  in  the  atmosphere 
Told  you  when  the  day  was  near, 
Didn't  need  no  almanacs  ; 
That  was  one  o'  Nature's  fac's. 
Every  cottage  decked  out  gay  — 
Cedar  wreaths  an'  holly  spray  — 
An'  the  stores,  how  they  were  drest, 
Tinsel  tell  you  couldn't  rest ; 
Every  winder  fixed  up  pat, 


Candy  canes,  an'  things  like  that ; 
Noah's  arks,  an'  guns,  an'  dolls, 
An'  all  kinds  o'  fol-de-rols. 
Then  with  frosty  bells  a-chime, 
Slidin'  down  the  hills  o'  time, 
Right  amidst  the  fun  an'  din 
Christmas  come  a-bustlin'  in, 
Raised  his  cheery  voice  to  call 
Out  a  welcome  to  us  all, 
Hale  and  hearty,  strong  an'  bluff, 
That  was  Christmas,  sure  enough. 
Snow  knee-deep  an'  coastin'  fine, 
Frozen  mill-ponds  all  ashine, 
Seemin'  jest  to  lay  in  wait, 
Beggin*  you  to  come  an'  skate. 
An'  you'd  git  your  gal  an'  go 
Stumpin'  cheerily  thro'  the  snow, 
Feelin'  pleased  an'  skeert  an'  warm 
'Cause  she  had  a-holt  yore  arm. 
Why,  when  Christmas  come  in,  we 
Spent  the  whole  glad  day  in  glee, 
Havin'  fun  an'  feastin'  high 
An'  some  courtin'  on  the  sly. 
Bustin'  in  some  neighbor's  door 
An*  then  suddenly,  before 
He  could  give  his  voice  a  lift, 
Yellin'  at  him,  «  Christmas  gift." 
Now  sich  things  are  never  heard, 
"  Merry  Christmas  "  is  the  word. 
But  it's  only  change  o'  name, 
An'  means  givin'  jest  the  same. 
There's  too  many  new-styled  ways 
Now  about  the  holidays. 
I'd  jest  like  once  more  to  see 
Christmas  like  it  used  to  be ! 


LONESOME 

Mother's  gone  a-visitm'  to  spend  a  month 

er  two, 
An',  oh,  the  house  is  lonesome  ez  a  nest 

whose  birds  has  flew 
To  other  trees  to  build  ag'in ;  the  rooms 

seem  jest  so  bare 
That  the  echoes  run  like  sperrits  from  the 

kitchen  to  the  stair. 
The  shelters  flap  more  lazy-like  'n  what 

they  used  to  do, 
Sence  mother's  gone  a-visitin*  to  spend  a 

month  er  two. 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


189 


We've  killed  the  fattest  chicken  an*  we've 

cooked  her  to  a  turn ; 
We've   made   the  richest  gravy,  but  I  jest 

don't  give  a  durn 
Fur  nothin'  'at  I   drink  er  eat,  er  nothin' 

'at  I  see. 
The    food  ain't  got  the  pleasant  taste  it 

used  to  have  to  me. 
They's  somep'n'  stickin'  in  my  throat  ez 

tight  ez  hardened  glue, 
Sence  mother's  gone  a-visitin'  to  spend  a 

month  er  two. 

The  hollyhocks  air  jest  ez  pink,  they're 

double  ones  at  that, 
An*  I  wuz  prouder  of  'em  than  a  baby  of  a 

cat. 
But    now  I   don't   go   near  'em,   though 

they  nod  an'  blush  at  me, 
Fur  they's  somep'n'  seems  to  gall  me  in 

their  keerless  sort  o'  glee 
An'   all    their   fren'ly   noddin'   an'   their 

blushin*  seems  to  say  : 
"  You're  purty  lonesome,  John,   old   boy, 

sence  mother's  gone  away." 

The  neighbors  ain't  so  fren'ly  ez  it  seems 
they'd  ort  to  be  ; 

They  seem  to  be  a-lookin'  kinder  side- 
ways like  at  me, 

A-kinder  feared  they'd  tech  me  off  ez  ef  I 
wuz  a  match, 

An'  all  because  'at  mother's  gone  an'  I'm 
a-keepin'  batch ! 

I'm  shore  I  don't  do  nothin'  worse 'n  what 
I  used  to  do 

'Fore  mother  went  a-visitin'  to  spent  a 
month  er  two. 

The  sparrers  ac's  more  fearsome  like  an' 

won't  hop  quite  so  near, 
The  cricket's  chirp  is  sadder,  an'  the  sky 

ain't  ha'f  so  clear; 
When  ev'nin'  comes,  I  set  an'  smoke  tell 

my  eyes  begin  to  swim, 
An'  things  aroun'  commence  to  look  all 

blurred  an'  faint  an'  dim. 
Well,  I  guess  I'll  have  to  own  up  'at  I'm 

feelin'  purty  blue 
Sence  mother's  gone  a-visitin'  to  spend  a 

month  er  two. 


GROWIN'  GRAY 

Hello,  ole  man,  you're  a-gittin'  gray, 

An'  it  beats  ole  Ned  to  see  the  way 

'At  the  crow's  feet's  a-getherin'  aroun'  yore 

eyes ; 

Tho'  it  oughtn't  to  cause  me  no  su'prise, 
Fur  there's  many  a  sun  'at  you've  seen 

rise 

An'  many  a  one  you've  seen  go  down 
Sence  yore  step  was  light  an'  yore  hair  was 

brown, 
An*   storms    an'   snows    have    had    their 

way  — 
Hello,  ole  man,  you're  a-gittin'  gray. 

Hello,  ole  man,  you're  a-gittin'  gray, 
An*  the  youthful  pranks  'at  you  used  to 

play 

Are  dreams  of  a  far  past  long  ago 
That  lie  in  a  heart  where  the  fires  burn 

low  — 
That  has  lost  the  flame  though  it  kept  the 

glow, 

An*  spite  of  drivin'  snow  an'  storm, 
Beats  bravely  on  forever  warm. 
December  holds  the  place  of  May  — 
Hello,  ole  man,  you're  a-gittin'  gray. 

Hello,  ole  man,  you're  a-gittin'  gray  — 
Who   cares  what   the   carpin'  youngsters 

say  ? 

For,  after  all,  when  the  tale  is  told, 
Love  proves  if  a  man  is  young  or  old ! 
Old  age  can't  make  the  heart  grow  cold 
When  it  does  the  will  of  an  honest  mind ; 
When  it  beats  with  love  fur  all  mankind ; 
Then  the  night  but  leads  to  a  fairer  day  — 
Hello,  ole  man,  you're  a-gittin'  gray ! 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  MARY 
YOUNG 

God  has  his  plans,  and  what  if  we 
With  our  sight  be  too  blind  to  see 
Their  full  fruition  ;  cannot  he, 
Who  made  it,  solve  the  mystery  ? 
One  whom  we  loved  has  fall'n  asleep, 
Not  died ;  although  her  calm  be  deep, 
Some  new,  unknown,  and  strange  surprise 
In  Heaven  holds  enrapt  her  eyes. 


1 90 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


And  can  you  blame  her  that  her  gaze 
Is  turned  away  from  earthly  ways, 
When  to  her  eyes  God's  light  and  love 
Have  giv'n  the  view  of  things  above  ? 
A  gentle  spirit  sweetly  good, 
The  pearl  of  precious  womanhood ; 
Who  heard  the  voice  of  duty  clear, 
And  found  her  mission  soon  and  near. 

She  loved  all  nature,  flowers  fair, 
The  warmth  of  sun,  the  kiss  of  air, 
The  birds  that  filled  the  sky  with  song, 
The  stream  that  laughed  its  way  along. 
Her  home  to  her  was  shrine  and  throne, 
But  one  love  held  her  not  alone ; 
She  sought  out  poverty  and  grief, 
Who  touched  her  robe  and  found  relief. 

So  sped  she  in  her  Master's  work, 

Too  busy  and  too  brave  to  shirk, 

When  through  the  silence,  dusk  and  dim, 

God  called  her  and  she  fled  to  him. 

We  wonder  at  the  early  call, 

And  tears  of  sorrow  can  but  fall 

For  her  o'er  whom  we  spread  the  pall ; 

But  faith,  sweet  faith,  is  over  all. 

The  house  is  dust,  the  voice  is  dumb, 
But  through  undying  years  to  come, 
The  spark  that  glowed  within  her  soul 
Shall  light  our  footsteps  to  the  goal. 
She  went  her  way ;  but  oh,  she  trod 
The  path  that  led  her  straight  to  God. 
Such  lives  as  this  put  death  to  scorn ; 
They  lose  our  day  to  find  God's  morn. 

WHEN  MALINDY  SINGS 

This  poem  has  been  adjudged  as  the 
best  of  his  dialect  pieces.  It  has  been  set 
to  music  and  sung  in  homes  all  over  the 
land.  It  was  dedicated  to  his  mother 
whose  name  Matilda,  was  slightly  modified 
to  suit  the  rhythm  and  melody  of  the 
verses. 

Mr.  Dunbar  recited  this  poem  before  a 
critical  audience  in  London,  England,  and 
it  was  given  very  complimentary  mention 
in  the  London  Daily  News. 

While  in  New  York  in  1896,  Mr.  Dun- 
bar  was  tendered  a  reception  by  the  entire 
Ftaff  of  the  Century  Magazine,  and  was 


asked  to  read  a  few  of  his  poems.  This 
poem  was  among  those  recited  that  day. 
His  hearers  were  loud  in  their  applause, 
and  showered  compliments  and  congratula- 
tions upon  its  author. 

Several  of  Mr.  Dunbar's  poems  had  been 
published  in  the  Century  before  that  date, 
but,  full  of  the  spirit  of  mischief,  the 
young  black  man  turned  to  Mr.  Gilder, 
the  editor  of  the  Century,  and  said  : 

"That's  one  you  returned." 

Mr.  Gilder  was  a  bit  embarrassed,  but 
gallantly  said : 

"  We'll  take  it  yet." 

"  Sorry,"  replied  Dunbar  laughingly, 
"  but  you're  too  late.  It  has  now  been 
accepted  by  another  magazine." 

G'way  an'  quit  dat  noise,  Miss  Lucy — 

Put  dat  music  book  away ; 
What's  de  use  to  keep  on  tryin'  ? 

Ef  you  practise  twell  you're  gray, 
You  cain't  sta't  no  notes  a-flyin' 

Lak  de  ones  dat  rants  and  rings 
F'om  the  kitchen  to  de  big  woods 

When  Malindy  sings. 

You  ain't  got  de  nachel  o'gans 

Fu'  to  make  de  soun'  come  right, 
You  ain't  got  de  tu'ns  an'  twistin's 

Fu'  to  make  it  sweet  an'  light. 
Tell  you  one  thing  now,  Miss  Lucy, 

An'  I'm  tellin'  you  fu'  true, 
When  hit  comes  to  raal  right  singin', 

Tain't  no  easy  thing  to  do. 

Easy  'nough  fu'  folks  to  hollah, 

Lookin'  at  de  lines  an'  dots, 
When  dey  ain't  no  one  kin  sence  it, 

An'  de  chune  comes  in,  in  spots ; 
But  fu'  real  melojous  music, 

Dat  jes'  strikes  yo'  hea't  and  clings, 
Jes'  you  stan'  an'  listen  wif  me 

When  Malindy  sings. 

Ain't  you  nevah  hyeahd  Malindy  ? 

Blessed  soul,  tek  up  de  cross ! 
Look  hyeah,  ain't  you  jokin',  honey? 

Well,  you  don't  know  whut  you  los'. 
Y'  ought  to  hyeah  dat  gal  a-wa'blin', 

Robins,  la'ks,  an'  all  dem  things, 


PUT  DAT  Music  BOOK  AWAY 


WHILE  MALINDY  SINGS 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


193 


Heish  dey  moufs  an'  hides  dey  faces 
When  Malindy  sings. 

Fiddlin'  man  jes'  stop  his  fiddlin', 

Lay  his  fiddle  on  de  she'f ; 
Mockin'-bird  quit  tryin'  to  whistle, 

'Cause  he  jes'  so  shamed  hisse'f. 
Folks  a-playin'  on  de  banjo 

Draps  dey  fingahs  on  de  strings  — 
Bless  yo'  soul — fu'gits  to  move  'em, 

When  Malindy  sings. 

She  jes'  spreads  huh  mouf  and  hollahs, 

"  Come  to  Jesus,"  twell  you  hyeah 
Sinnahs'  tremblin'  steps  and  voices, 

Timid-lak  a-drawin'  neah; 
Den  she  tu'ns  to  «  Rock  of  Ages," 

Simply  to  de  cross  she  clings, 
An'  you  fin'  yo'  teahs  a-drappin' 

When  Malindy  sings. 

Who  dat  says  dat  humble  praises 

Wif  de  Master  nevah  counts  ? 
Heish  yo'  mouf,  I  hyeah  dat  music, 

Ez  hit  rises  up  an'  mounts  — 
Floatin'  by  de  hills  an'  valleys, 

Way  above  dis  buryin'  sod, 
Ez  hit  makes  its  way  in  glory 

To  de  very  gates  of  God ! 

Oh,  hit's  sweetah  dan  de  music 

Of  an  edicated  band ; 
An'  hit's  dearah  dan  de  battle's 

Song  o'  triumph  in  de  Ian'. 
It  seems  holier  dan  evenin' 

When  de  solemn  chu'ch  bell  rings, 
Ez  I  sit  an'  ca'mly  listen 

While  Malindy  sings. 

Towsah,  stop  dat  ba'kin',  hyeah  me ! 

Mandy,  mek  dat  chile  keep  still ; 
Don't  you  hyeah  de  echoes  callin' 

F'om  de  valley  to  de  hill  ? 
Let  me  listen,  I  can  hyeah  it, 

Th'oo  de  bresh  of  angel's  wings, 
Sof  an'  sweet,  "Swing  Low,  Sweet 
Chariot," 

Ez  Malindy  sings. 

THE  PARTY 

Of  this  production  William  Dean 
Howells  said  in  his  notable  article  in 
Harper's  Weekly  : 


"  I  wish  I  could  give  the  whole  of  the 
piece  which  he  calls  « The  Pahty,'  but  I 
must  content  myself  with  a  passage  or 
two.  They  will  impart  some  sense  of  the 
jolly  rush  of  movement,  its  vivid  pictur- 
esqueness,  its  broad  characterization,  and 
will  perhaps  suffice  to  show  what  vistas 
into  the  simple,  sensuous,  joyous  nature  of 
his  race  Mr.  Dunbar's  work  opens."  He 
then  quoted  a  number  of  the  lines. 

"  One  sees,"  continued  Mr.  Howells, 
"  how  the  poet  exults  in  his  material  as 
the  artist  always  does.  It  is  not  for  him 
to  blink  its  commonness,  or  to  be  ashamed 
of  its  rudeness  :  and  in  his  treatment  of  .it 
he  has  been  able  to  bring  us  nearer  to  the 
heart  of  primitive  human  nature  in  his 
race  than  any  one  else  has  yet  done." 

(These  quotations  from  Mr.  Howells' 
article  are  used  by  permission  and  courtesy 
of  Messrs.  Harper  &  Brothers.) 


Dey  had  a  gread  big  pahty  down  to  Tom's 

de  othah  night ; 
Was  I  dah  ?     You  bet !     I  nevah  in  my 

life  see  sich  a  sight ; 

All  de  folks  f'om  fou'  plantations  was  in- 
vited, an'  dey  come, 
Dey  come  troopin'  thick  ez  chillun  when 

dey  hyeahs  a  fife  an'  drum. 
Evahbody  dressed  deir  fines' — Heish  yo' 

mouf  an'  git  away, 
Ain't  seen  no  sich  fancy  dressin'  sence  las' 

quah'tly  meetin'  day ; 
Gals  all  dressed  in  silks  an'  satins,  not  a 

wrinkle  ner  a  crease, 
Eyes  a-battin',  teeth  a-shinin',  haih  breshed 

back  ez  slick  ez  grease  ; 
Sku'ts  all  tucked  an'  puffed   an'  ruffled, 

evah  blessed  seam  an'  stitch  ; 
Ef  you'd  seen  'em  wif  deir  mistus,  couldn't 

swahed  to  which  was  which. 
Men   all   dressed   up   in    Prince    Alberts, 

swallertails  'u'd  tek  yo'  bref ! 
I  cain't  tell  you  nothin'  'bout  it,  yo'  ought 

to  seen  it  fu'  yo'se'f. 
Who  was  dah  ?     Now  who   you   askin'  ? 

How  you  'spect  I  gwine  to  know  ? 
You  mus'  think  I  stood  an'  counted  evah- 

body  at  de  do*. 


194 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


Ole  man  Babah's  house  boy  Isaac,  brung 

dat  gal,  Malindy  Jane, 
Huh  a-hangin'  to  his  elbow,  him  a  struttin' 

wif  a  cane ; 
My,  but  Hahvey  Jones  was  jealous !  seemed 

to  stick  him  lak  a  tho'n  ; 
But  he  laughed  with  Viney  Cahteh,  tryin' 

ha'd  to  not  let  on, 
But  a  pusson  would  'a'  noticed  fom  de 

d'rection  of  his  look, 
Dat  he  was  watchin'  ev'ry  step  dat  Ike  an' 

Lindy  took. 
Ike   he   foun'   a   cheer  an'   asked    huh : 

"  Won't  you  set  down  ?  "  wif  a  smile, 
An*   she   answe'd   up  a-bowin',   "  Oh,   I 

reckon  'tain't  wuth  while." 
Dat  was  jes'  fu'  style,  I  reckon,  'cause  she 

sot  down  jes'  de  same, 
An'  she  stayed  dah  'twell  he  fetched  huh 

fu'  to  jine  some  so't  o'  game  ; 
Den  I  hyeahd  huh  sayin*  propah,  ez  she 

riz  to  go  away, 
"  Oh,   you   raly   mus'   excuse    me,   fu'  I 

hardly  keers  to  play." 
But  I  seen  huh  in  a  minute  wif  de  othahs 

on  de  flo', 
An*  dah  wasn't  any  one  o'  dem  a-playin' 

any  mo' ; 
Comin'  down  de  flo'  a-bowin'  an'  a-swayin' 

an'  a-swingin', 
Puttin'  on  huh  high-toned  mannahs  all  de 

time  dat  she  was  singin' : 
"  Oh,  swing  Johnny  up  an'  down,  swing 

him  all  aroun', 
Swing  Johnny  up  an'  down,  swing  him  all 

aroun', 
Oh,  swing  Johnny  up  an'   down,   swing 

him  all  aroun', 
Fa'  you  well,  my  dahlin'." 
Had  to  laff  at  ole  man  Johnson,  he's  a 

caution  now,  you  bet  — 
Hittin'  clost  onto  a  hunderd,  but  he's  spry 

an'  nimble  yet ; 
He  'lowed  how  a-so't  o'  gigglin',  "  I  ain't 

ole,  I'll  let  you  see, 
D'ain't  no  use  in  gittin'  feeble,  now  you 

youngstahs  jes'  watch  me," 
An'  he  grabbed  ole  Aunt  Marier — weighs 

th'ee  hunderd  mo'  er  less, 
An'  he  spun  huh  'roun'  de  cabin  swingin' 

Johnny  lak  de  res'. 


Evahbody  laffed  an*   hollahed :  "  Go   it 

Swing  huh,  Uncle  Jim  !  " 
An'  he  swung  huh  too,  I  reckon,  lak  a 

youngstah,  who  but  him. 
Dat  was  bettah'n   young   Scott  Thomas, 

tryin'  to  be  so  awful  smaht. 
You  know  when  dey  gits  to  singin'  an'  dey 

comes  to  dat  ere  paht : 

"  In  some  lady's  new  brick  house, 

In  some 'lady's  gyahden. 

Ef   you  don't  let  me   out,  I   will 
jump  out, 

So  fa'  you  well,  my  dahlin'." 
Den  dey's  got  a  circle  'roun'  you,  an'  you's 

got  to  break  de  line ; 
Well,  dat  dahky  was  so  anxious,  lak  to 

bust  hisse'f  a-tryin' ; 
Kep'  on  blund'rin'  'roun'  an'  foolin'  'twell 

he  giv'  one  gread  big  jump, 
Broke  de  line,  an'  lit  head-fo'most  in  de 

fiahplace  right  plump; 
Hit   'ad   fiah   in   it,   mind  you;   well,   I 

thought  my  soul  I'd  bust, 
Tried  my  best  to  keep  fom  laffin',  but  hit 

seemed  like  die  I  must ! 
Y'   ought   to   seen  dat  man   a-scramblin' 

fom  de  ashes  an'  de  grime. 
Did  it  bu'n  him !   Sich  a  question,  why  he 

didn't  give  it  time' ; 
Th'ow'd  dem  ashes  and  dem  cindahs  evah 

which-a-way  I  guess, 
An'   you  nevah  did,  I   reckon,  clap  yo1 

eyes  on  sich  a  mess  ; 
Fu'  he  sholy  made  a  picter  an'  a  funny 

one  to  boot, 
Wif  his  clothes  all  full  o'  ashes  an'  his  face 

all  full  o'  soot. 
Well,  hit  laked  to  stopped  de  pahty,  an'  I 

reckon  lak  ez  not 
Dat  it  would  ef  Tom's  wife,  Mandy,  hadn't 

happened  on  de  spot, 
To   invite   us    out   to    suppah — well,  we 

scrambled  to  de  table, 
An'  I'd  lak  to  tell  you  'bout  it — what  we 

had — but  I  ain't  able, 
Mention  jes'  a  few  things,  dough  I  know  I 

hadn't  orter, 
Fu'  I  know  'twill  staht  a  hank'rin'  an'  yo' 

mouf  '11  'mence  to  worter. 
We  had  wheat  bread  white  ez  cotton  an'  a 

egg  pone  jes'  like  gol', 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


195 


Hog  jole,  bilin'  hot  an'  steamin'  roasted 

shoat  an'  ham  sliced  cold  — 
Look  out !     What's  de  mattah  wif  you  ? 

Don't  be  Tallin'  on  de  flo' ; 
Ef  it's  go'n'  to  'feet  you  dat  way>  I  won't 

tell  you  nothin'  mo'. 
Dah  now — well,  we  had  hot  chittlin's  — 

now  you's  tryin'  ag'in  to  fall, 
Cain't  you  stan'  to  hyeah  about  it  ?    S'pose 

you'd  been  an'  seed  it  all ; 
Seed  dem  gread  big  sweet  pertaters,  layin' 

by  de  possum's  side, 
Seed  dat  coon  in  all  his  gravy,  reckon  den 

you'd  up  and  died  ! 
Mandy  'lowed  "  you  all  mus'  'scuse  me,  d* 

wa'n't  much  upon  my  she'ves, 
But  I's  done  my  bes'  to  suit  you,  so  set 

down  an'  he'p  yo'se'ves." 
Tom,  he  'lowed  :  "  I  don't  b'lieve  in  'pol- 

ogizin'  an'  perfessin', 
Let  'em  tek  it  lak  dey  ketch  it.     Eldah 

Thompson,  ask  de  blessin'." 
Wish   you'd   seed    dat  •  colo'ed    preachah 

cleah  his  th'oat  an'  bow  his  head  ; 
One  eye  shet,  an'  one  eye  open,— dis  is 

evah  wud  he  said  : 
"  Lawd,  look  down  in  tendah  mussy  on 

sich  generous  hea'ts  ez  dese; 
Make   us  truly  thankful,  amen.     Pass  dat 

possum,  ef  you  please  !  " 
Well,   we   eat  and  drunk   ouah    po'tion, 

'twell  dah  wasn't  nothin'  lef, 
An'  we  felt  jes'  like  new  sausage,  we  was 

mos'  nigh  stuffed  to  def ! 
Tom,  he  knowed    how  we'd   be   feelin', 

so  he  had  de  fiddlah  'roun', 
An'  he  made  us  cleah  de  cabin  fu'  to  dance 

dat  suppah  down. 
Jim,    de   fiddlah,   chuned   his   fiddle,   put 

some  rosum  on  his  bow, 
Set  a  pine  box  on  de  table,  mounted  it  an* 

let  huh  go  ! 
He's  a  fiddlah,  now  I  tell  you,  an'  he  made 

dat  fiddle  ring, 
Twell  de  ol'est  an'  de  lamest  had  to  give 

deir  feet  a  fling. 
Jigs,    cotillions,    reels    an'    break-downs, 

cordrills  an'  a  waltz  er  two  ; 
Bless  yo'  soul,  dat  music  winged  'em  an' 

dem  people  lak  to  flew. 
Cripple  Joe,  cL  ole  rheumatic,  danced  dat 
flo'  f  om  side  to  middle, 


Th'owed  away  his  crutch  an'  hopped  it, 

what's  rheumatics  'ginst  a  fiddle  ? 
Eldah  Thompson  got  so  tickled  dat  he  lak 

to  los'  his  grace, 
Had  to  tek  bofe  feet  an*  hoi'  dem  so's  to 

keep  'em  in  deir  place. 
An'  de  Christuns  an'   de   sinnahs  got  so 

mixed  up  on  dat  flo', 
Dat  I  don't  see  how  dey'd  pahted  ef  de 

trump  had  chanced  to  blow. 
Well,  we  danced  dat  way  an'  capahed  in 

de  mos'  redic'lous  way, 
'Twell  de  roostahs  in  de  bahnyard  cleahed 

deir  th'oats  an'  crowed  fu'  day. 
Y'  ought  to  been  dah,  fu'  I  tell  you  evah- 

thing  was  rich  an'  prime, 
An'  dey  ain't  no  use  in  talkin',  we  jes'  had 

one  scrumptious  time  ! 


LOVE'S  APOTHEOSIS 

Love  me.     I  care  not  what  the  circling 
years 

To  me  may  do. 
If,  but  in  spite  of  time  and  tears, 

You  prove  but  true. 

Love  me — albeit  grief  shall  dim  mine  eyes, 

And  tears  bedew, 
I  shall  not  e'en  complain,  for  then  my  skies 

Shall  still  be  blue. 

Love  me,  and  though  the  winter  snow 

shall  pile, 

And  leave  me  chill, 
Thy  passion's  warmth  shall  make  for  me, 

meanwhile, 
A  sun-kissed  hill. 

And  when  the  days  have  lengthened  into 

years, 

And  I  grow  old, 
Oh,  spite  of  pains  and  griefs  and  cares  and 

fears, 
Grow  thou  not  cold. 

Then   hand   and   hand  we  shall  pass  up 

the  hill, 
I  say  not  down ; 


196 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


That  twain  go  up,  of  love,  who've  loved 

their  fill,— 
To  gain  love's  crown. 

Love  me,  and  let  my  life  take  up  thine 

own, 

As  sun  the  dew. 
Come,   sit,  my  queen,  for  in  my  heart  a 

throne 
Awaits  for  you ! 

THE  PARADOX 

I  am  the  mother  of  sorrows, 

I  am  the  ender  of  grief; 
I  am  the  bud  and  the  blossom, 

I  am  the  late- falling  leaf. 

I  am  thy  priest  and  thy  poet, 
I  am  thy  serf  and  thy  king ; 

I  cure  the  tears  of  the  heartsick, 
When  I  come  near  they  shall  sing. 

White  are  my  hands  as  the  snowdrop ; 

Swart  are  my  fingers  as  clay ; 
Dark  is  my  frown  as  the  midnight, 

Fair  is  my  brow  as  the  day. 

Battle  and  war  are  my  minions, 

Doing  my  will  as  divine ; 
I  am  the  calmer  of  passions, 

Peace  is  a  nursling  of  mine. 

Speak  to  me  gently  or  curse  me, 
Seek  me  or  fly  from  my  sight ; 

I  am  thy  fool  in  the  morning, 
Thou  art  my  slave  in  the  night. 

Down  to  the  grave  will  I  take  thee, 
Out  from  the  noise  of  the  strife  ; 

Then  shalt  thou  see  me  and  know  me  — 
Death,  then,  no  longer,  but  life. 

Then  shalt  thou  sing  at  my  coming, 
Kiss  me  with  passionate  breath, 

Clasp  me  and  smile  to  have  thought  me 
Aught  save  the  foeman  of  Death. 

Come  to  me,  brother,  when  weary, 
Come  when  thy  lonely  heart  swells  ; 

I'll  guide  thy  footsteps  and  lead  thee 
Down     where    the    Dream   Woman 
dwells. 


OVER  THE  HILLS 

Over  the  hills  and  the  valleys  of  dreaming 

Slowly  I  take  my  way. 
Life   is  the  night  with  its  dream-visions 
teeming, 

Death  is  the  waking  at  day. 

Down  thro' the  dales  and  the  bowers  of 

loving, 

Singing,  I  roam  afar. 

Daytime  or   night-time,  I  constantly  rov- 
ing,— 
Dearest  one,  thou  art  my  star. 

WITH  THE  LARK 

Night  is  for  sorrow  and  dawn  is  for  joy, 
Chasing  the  troubles  that  fret  and  annoy; 
Darkness    for    sighing   and   daylight    for 

song,— 
Cheery  and  chaste  the  strain,  heartfelt  and 

strong. 
All  the  night  through,  though  I  moan  in 

the  dark, 
I  wake  in  the  morning  to  sing  with  the 

lark. 

Deep  in  the  midnight  the  rain  whips  the 

leaves, 

Softly  and  sadly  the  wood-spirit  grieves. 
But  when  the  first  hue  of  dawn  tints  the 

sky, 
I  shall  shake  out  my  wings  like  the  birds 

and  be  dry ; 
And  though,  like  the  rain-drops,  I  grieved 

through  the  dark, 
I  shall  wake  in  the  morning  to  sing  with 

the  lark. 

On  the  high  hills  of  heaven,  some  morning 

to  be, 
Where  the  rain  shall  not  grieve  thro'  the 

leaves  of  the  tree, 
There  my  heart  will  be  glad  for  the  pain  I 

have  known, 
For  my  hand  will  be  clasped  in  the  hand 

of  mine  own ; 
And  though  life  has  been  h*rd  and  death's 

pathway  been  dark, 
I  shall  wake  in  th?  morning  to  sing  with 

the  lark. 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


197 


IN  SUMMER 

Oh,  summer  has  clothed  the  earth 
In  a  cloak  from  the  loom  of  the  sun ! 

And  a  mantle,  too,  of  the  skies'  soft  blue, 
And  a  belt  where  the  rivers  run. 

And  now  for  the  kiss  of  the  wind, 
And  the  touch  of  the  air's  soft  hands, 

With  the  rest  from  strife  and  the  heat  of 

life, 
With  the  freedom  of  lakes  and  lands. 

I  envy  the  farmer's  boy 

Who  sings  as  he  follows  the  plow ; 
While   the   shining   green   of  the    young 
blades  lean 

To  the  breezes  that  cool  his  brow. 

He  sings  to  the  dewy  morn, 

No  thought  of  another's  ear; 
But  the  song  "he  sings  is  a  chant  for  kings 

And  the  whole  wide  world  to  hear. 

He  sings  of  the  joys  of  life, 

Of  the  pleasures  of  work  and  rest, 

From    an  o'erfull  heart,  without  aim  or 

art; 
'Tis  a  song  of  the  merriest. 

O  ye  who  toil  in  the  town, 
And  ye  who  moil  in  the  mart, 

Hear    the    artless   song,   and   your   faith 

made  strong 
Shall  renew  your  joy  of  heart. 

Oh,  poor  were  the  worth  of  the  world 
If  never  a  song  were  heard, — 

If  the  sting  of  grief  had  no  relief, 
And  never  a  heart  were  stirred. 

So,  long  as  the  streams  run  down, 
And  as  long  as  the  robins  trill, 

Let  us  taunt  old  Care  with  a  merry  air, 
And  sing  in  the  face  of  ill. 

THE  MYSTIC  SEA 

The  smell  of  the  sea  in  my  nostrils, 
The  sound  of  the  sea  in  mine  ears; 

The  touch  of  the  spray  on  my  burning  face, 
Like  the  mist  of  reluctant  tears. 


The  blue  of  the  sky  above  me, 
The  green  of  the  waves  beneath ; 

The  sun  flashing  down  on  a  gray-white  sail 
Like  a  scimetar  from  its  sheath. 

And  ever  the  breaking  billows, 

And  ever  the  rocks'  disdain ; 
And  ever  a  thrill  in  mine  inmost  heart 

That  my  reason  cannot  explain. 

So  I  say  to  my  heart,  "  Be  silent, 

The  mystery  of  time  is  here; 
Death's  way  will  be  plain  when  we  fathom 
the  main, 

And  the  secret  of  life  be  clear." 


A  SAILOR'S  SONG 

Oh,  for  the  breath  of  the  briny  deep, 
And  the  tug  of  a  bellying  sail, 

With  the  sea-gull's  cry  across  the  sky 
And  a  passing  boatman's  hail. 

For,  be  she  fierce  or  be  she  gay, 

The  sea  is  a  famous  friend  alway. 

Ho !  for  the  plains  where  the  dolphins  play, 
And  the  bend  of  the  masts  and  spars, 

And  a  fight  at  night  with  the  wild  sea-sprite 
When  the  foam  has  drowned  the  stars. 

And,  pray,  what  joy  can  the  landsman  feel 

Like  the  rise  and  fall  of  a  sliding  keel  ? 

Fair  is  the  mead ;  the  lawn  is  fair 
And  the  birds  sing  sweet  on  the  lea ; 

But  the  echo  soft  of  a  song  aloft 
Is  the  strain  that  pleases  me  ; 

And  swish  of  rope  and  ring  of  chain 

Are  music  to  men  who  sail  the  main. 

Then,  if  you  love  me,  let  me  sail 
While  a  vessel  dares  the  deep; 

For  the  ship's  my  wife,  and  the  breath  of 

life 
Are  the  raging  gales  that  sweep ; 

And  when  I'm  done  with  calm  and  blast, 

A  slide  o'er  the  side,  and  rest  at  last. 


THE  BOHEMIAN 

That  Paul  Dunbar— like  all  real  artists 
— scorned  convention  and  believed  in  a 


I98 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


simple,  natural  existence,  untrammeled  by 
men's  laws  or  foolish  rules  of  etiquette,  is 
shown  in  this  brief  bit  of  rhyme,  which 
was  composed  after  a  conversation  upon 
the  subject  with  a  sympathetic  friend. 

Bring  me  the  livery  of  no  other  man. 

I  am  my  own  to  robe  me  at  my  pleasure. 

Accepted  rules  to  me  disclose  no  treasure : 
What  is  the  chief  who  shall  my  garments 
plan? 

No  garb  conventional  but  I'll  attack  it. 

(Come,  why  not  don  my  spangled  jacket  ?) 

ABSENCE 

Good-night,  my  love,  for  I  have  dreamed 
of  thee 

In  waking  dreams,  until  my  soul  is  lost  — 
Is  lost  in  passion's  wide  and  shoreless  sea, 

Where,  like  a  ship,  unruddered,  it  is  tost 
Hither  and  thither  at  the  wild  waves'  will. 
There  is  no  potent  Master's  voice  to  still 
This  newer,  more  tempestuous  Galilee ! 

The  stormy  petrels  of  my  fancy  fly 

In  warning  course  across  the  darkening 
green, 

And,  like  a  frightened  bird,  my  heart  doth 

cry 

And  seek  to  find  some  rock  of  rest  be- 
tween 

The  threatening  sky  and  the  relentless 
wave. 

It  is  not  length  of  life  that  grief  doth  crave, 

But  only  calm  and  peace  in  which  to  die. 

Here  let  me  rest  upon  this  single  hope, 

For  oh,  my  wings  are  weary  of  the  wind, 
And  with  its  stress  no  more  may  strive  or 

cope. 
One  cry  has  dulled  mine  ears,  mine  eyes 

are  blind, — 

Would  that  o'er  all  the  intervening  space, 
I  might  fly  forth  and  see  thee  face  to  face. 
I  fly  ;  I  search,  but,  love,  in  gloom  I  grope. 

Fly  home,  far  bird,  unto  thy  waiting  nest ; 
Spread  thy  strong  wings  above  the  wind- 
swept sea. 

Beat  the  grim  breeze  with  thy  unruffled 
breast 


Until  thou  sittest  wing  to  wing  with  me. 
Then,  let  the  past   bring  up  its  tales  of 

wrong ; 
We  shall  chant  low  our  sweet  connubial 

song, 

Till  storm  and  doubt  and  past  no  more 
shall  be ! 


HER  THOUGHT  AND  HIS 

The  gray  of  the  sea,  and  the  gray  of  the 
sky, 

A  glimpse  of  the  moon  like  a  half-closed 
eye. 

The  gleam  on  the  waves  and  the  light  on 
the  land, 

A  thrill  in  my  heart, — and — my  sweet- 
heart's hand. 

She  turned  from  the  sea  with  a  woman's 

grace, 
And  the  light  fell  soft  on  her  upturned 

face, 
And  I  thought  of  the  flood-tide  of  infinite 

bliss 
That  would  flow  to  my  heart  from  a  single 

kiss. 

But  my  sweetheart  was  shy,  so  I  dared  not 

ask 

For  the  boon,  so  bravely  I  wore  the  mask. 
But  into  her  face  there  came  a  flame ;  — 
I  wonder  could  she  have  been  thinking  the 

same? 


THE  RIGHT  TO  DIE 

One  evening  Mr.  Dunbar  and  a  friend 
of  whom  he  was  very  fond,  and  in  whose 
presence  the  poet  felt  no  restraint,  were 
talking  of  suicide.  The  friend  took  the 
orthodox  and  popular  view  of  the  dreadful 
practice. 

Dunbar  stood  with  his  hands  at  his  back 
before  an  open  fire.  Suddenly — with  up- 
turned eyes,  and  in  earnest  tones  he  began 
to  improvise  his  reply  in  verse.  So  unusual 
was  the  sentiment  and  so  daring  the  thought 
that  his  listener  compelled  him  to  take  a 
seat  at  a  desk  and  write  it  out  ere  the  lines 
escaped  him.  Many  of  Dunbar's  best 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


poems  came  thus,  and  passed  away  with 
his  breath,  as  he  did  not  pause  to  set  them 
down. 

I  have  no  fancy  for  that  ancient  cant 
That  makes  us  masters  of  our  destinies, 
And  not  our  lives,  to  hold  or  give  them  up 
As  will  directs;  I  cannot,  will  not  think 
That  men,  the  subtle  worms,  who  plot  and 

plan 
And  scheme  and  calculate  with  such  shrewd 

wit, 
Are  such  great  blund'ring  fools  as  not  to 

know 
When  they  have  lived  enough. 

Men  court  not  death 
When  there  are  sweets  still  left  in  life  to 

taste. 
Nor  will  a  brave  man  choose  to  live  when 

he, 
Full  deeply  drunk  of  life,  has  reached  the 

dregs, 

And  knows  that   now   but   bitterness  re- 
mains. 

He  is  the  coward  who,  outfaced  in  this, 
Fears  the  false  goblins  of  another  life. 
I  honor  him  who  being  much  harassed 
Drinks  of  sweet  courage  until  drunk  of  it, — 
Then  seizing  Death,  reluctant,  by  the  hand, 
Leaps  with  him,  fearless,  to  eternal  peace  ! 


BEHIND  THE  ARRAS 

As  in  some  dim  baronial  hall  restrained, 
A  prisoner  sits,  engirt  by  secret  doors 
And  waving  tapestries  that  argue  forth 
Strange  passages  into  the  outer  air ; 
So  in  this  dimmer  room  which  we  call  life, 
Thus  sits  the  soul  and  marks  with  eye  in- 
tent 

That  mystic  curtain  o'er  the  portal  death ; 
Still  deeming  that  behind  the  arras  lies 
The    lambent    way  that   leads   to   lasting 

light. 
Poor  fooled  and  foolish  soul !     Know  now 

that  death 
Is   but  a  blind,  false  door  that  nowhere 

leads, 

And  gives  no  hope  of  exit  final,  free. 
12 


199 

WHEN  THE  OLD  MAN  SMOKES 

In  the  forenoon's  restful  quiet) 

When  the  boys  are  off  at  school, 
When  the  window  lights  are  shaded 

And  the  chimney-corner  cool, 
Then  the  old  man  seeks  his  armchair, 

Lights  his  pipe  and  settles  back ; 
Falls  a-dreaming  as  he  draws  it 

Till  the  smoke-wreaths  gather  black. 

And  the  tear-drops  come  a  trickling 

Down  his  cheeks,  a  silver  flow  — 
Smoke  or  memories  you  wonder, 

But  you  never  ask  him, — no; 
For  there's  something  almost  sacred 

To  the  other  family  folks 
In  those  moods  of  silent  dreaming 

When  the  old  man  smokes. 

Ah,  perhaps  he  sits  there  dreaming 

Of  the  love  of  other  days 
And  of  how  he  used  to  lead  her 

Through  the  merry  dance's  maze ; 
How  he  called  her  "  little  princess," 

And,  to  please  her,  used  to  twine 
Tender  wreaths  to  crown  her  tresses, 

From  the  "  matrimony  vine." 

Then  before  his  mental  vision 

Comes,  perhaps,  a  sadder  day, 
When  they  left  his  little  princess 

Sleeping  with  her  fellow  clay. 
How  his  young  heart  throbbed,  and  pained 
him ! 

Why,  the  memory  of  it  chokes  ! 
Is  it  of  these  things  he's  thinking 

When  the  old  man  smokes  ? 

But  some  brighter  thoughts  possess  him, 

For  the  tears  are  dried  the  while. 
And  the  old,  worn  face  is  wrinkled 

In  a  reminiscent  smile, 
From  the  middle  of  the  forehead 

To  the  feebly  trembling  lip, 
At  some  ancient  prank  remembered 

Or  some  long  unheard-of  quip. 

Then  the  lips  relax  their  tension 

And  the  pipe  begins  to  slide, 
Till  in  little  clouds  of  ashes, 

It  falls  softly  at  his  side ; 


200 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


And  his  head  bends  low  and  lower 
Till  his  chin  lies  on  his  breast, 

And  he  sits  in  peaceful  slumber 
Like  a  little  child  at  rest. 

Dear  old  man,  there's  something  sad'ning, 

In  these  dreamy  moods  of  yours, 
Since  the  present  proves  so  fleeting, 

All  the  past  for  you  endures. 
Weeping  at  forgotten  sorrows, 

Smiling  at  forgotten  jokes ; 
Life  epitomized  in  minutes, 

"When  the  old  man  smokes. 


THE  GARRET 

The  poverty  which  befel  Mr.  Dunbar 
while  in  London,  and  which  would  have 
wholly  discouraged  many  another  sensitive 
soul,  proved  only  a  frame  upon  which  he 
hung  beautiful  garlands  of  song. 

The  little  poem,  given  herewith,  shows 
that  his  English  was  a  bit  Londonized 
while  in  that  city,  but  the  philosophic 
cheerfulness  was  the  same  that  came  with 
him  into  the  world,  and  forms  the  trim- 
ming of  so  many  of  his  graceful  poems. 
No  doubt  if  he  had  been  stranded  on  a 
desert  island,  he  would  have  found  abun- 
dant food  for  fun  and  would  have  written 
humorous  verse  at  his  own  expense,  to 
while  the  time  away. 

Within  a  London  garret  high, 
Above  the  roofs  and  near  the  sky, 
My  ill-rewarding  pen  I  ply 

To  win  me  bread. 
This  little  chamber,  six  by  four, 
Is  castle,  study,  den  and  more, — 
Altho'  no  carpet  decks  the  floor, 

Nor  down,  the  bed. 

My  room  is  rather  bleak  and  bare ; 

I  only  have  one  broken  chair, 

But  then,  there's  plenty  of  fresh  air, — 

Some  light,  beside. 
What  tho'  I  cannot  ask  my  friends 
To  share  with  me  my  odds  and  ends, 
A  liberty  my  aerie  lends, 

To  most  denied. 


The  bore  who  falters  at  the  stair 
No  more  shall  be  my  curse  and  care, 
And  duns  shall  fail  to  find  my  lair 

With  beastly  bills. 
When  debts  have  grown  and  funds  are 

short, 

I  find  it  rather  pleasant  sport 
To  live  "  above  the  common  sort " 

With  all  their  ills. 


I  write  my  rhymes  and  sing  away, 
And  dawn  may  come  or  dusk  or  day : 
Tho'  fare  be  poor,  my  heart  is  gay, 

And  full  of  glee. 

Though  chimney-pots  be  all  my  views ; 
'Tis  nearer  for  the  winging  Muse, 
So  I  am  sure  she'll  not  refuse 

To  visit  me. 


LITTLE  BROWN  BABY 

Little  brown  baby  wif  spa'klin'  eyes, 

Come  to  yo'  pappy  an'  set  on  his  knee. 
What  you  been  doin',  suh — makin'  san' 

pies  ? 

Look  at  dat  bib — you's  ez  du'ty  ez  me. 
Look  at  dat  mouf — dat's  merlasses,  I  bet; 
Come  hyeah,  Maria,  an*  wipe  off  his 

han's. 
Bees  gwine  to  ketch  you  an'  eat  you  up 

yit, 

Bein'    so  sticky  an*  sweet — goodness 
lan's ! 


Little  brown  baby  wif  spa'klin'  eyes, 
Who's  pappy's  darlin'  an'  who's  pappy's 

chile  ? 
Who  is  it  all  de  day  nevah  once  tries 

Fu'  to  be  cross,  er  once  loses  dat  smile  ? 
Whah  did  you  git  dem  teef  ?     My,  you's  a 

scamp ! 
Whah  did  dat  dimple  come  fom  in  yo' 

chin? 
Pappy  do*  know  yo — I  b'lieves  you's  a 

tramp ; 

Mammy,  dis  hyeah's  some  ol'  straggler 
got  in ! 


WHO'S  PAPPY'S  DARLIN' 


DEN  You  MEN'S  DE  MULE'S  OL'  HA'NESS 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


203 


Let's  th'ow  him  outen  de  do*  in  de  san', 
We  do'  want  stragglers  a-layin*  'roun' 

hyeah ; 

Let's  gin  him  'way  to  de  big  buggah-man ; 
I  know  he's  hidin*  erroun'  hyeah  right 

neah. 
Buggah-man,  buggah-man,   come    in   de 

do', 
Hyeah 's  a  bad  boy  you  kin  have  fu'  to 

eat. 

Mammy  an'  pappy  do'  want  him  no  mo', 
Swaller  him  down  f  om  his  haid  to  his 
feet! 

Dah,  now,  I  fought  dat  you'd  hug  me  up 

close. 
Go  back,  ol'  buggah,  you  sha'n't  have 

dis  boy. 
He   ain't  no  tramp,  ner  no  straggler,  of 

co'se ; 
He's  pappy's  pa'dner  an'  playmate  an' 

joy. 

Come  to  you'  pallet  now — go  to  yo'  res' ; 
Wisht  you  could  allus  know  ease  an* 

cleah  skies ; 
Wisht  you  could  stay  jes'  a  chile  on  my 

breas' — 
Little  brown  baby  wif  spa'klin'  eyes ! 


TIME  TO  TINKER  'ROUN' 

Summah's  nice,  wif  sun  a-shinin', 

Spring  is  good  wif  greens  and  grass, 
An'  dey's  some  t'ings  nice  'bout  wintah, 

Dough  hit  brings  de  freezin'  bias' ; 
But  de  time  dat  is  the  fines', 

Whethah  fiel's  is  green  or  brown, 
Is  w'en  de  rain's  a-po'in' 

An'  dey's  time  to  tinker  'roun'. 

Den  you  men's  de  mule's  ol'  ha'ness, 

An'  you  men's  de  broken  chair. 
Hummin'  all  de  time  you's  wo'kin' 

Some  ol'  common  kind  o'  air. 
Evah  now  an'  then  you  looks  out, 

Tryin'  mighty  ha'd  to  frown, 
But  you  cain't,  you's  glad  hit's  rainin', 

An'  dey's  time  to  tinker  'roun'. 


Oh,  you  'ten's  lak  you  so  anxious 

Evah  time  it  so't  o'  stops. 
W'en  hit  goes  on,  den  you  reckon 

Dat  de  wet'll  he'p  de  crops. 
But  hit  ain't  de  crops  you's  aftah ; 

You  knows  w'en  de  rain  comes  down 
Dat  hit's  too  wet  out  fu'  wo'kin', 

An'  dey's  time  to  tinker  'roun'. 

Oh,  dey's  fun  inside  de  co'n-crib, 

An'  dey's  laffin'  at  de  ba'n; 
An'  dey's  allus  some  one  jokin', 

Er  some  one  to  tell  a  ya'n. 
Dah's  a  quiet  in  yo'  cabin, 

Only  fu'  de  rain's  sof '  soun' ; 
So  you's  mighty  blessed  happy 

W'en  dey's  time  to  tinker  'roun' ! 

A  BRIDAL  MEASURE 

Come,  essay  a  sprightly  measure, 
Tuned  to  some  light  song  of  pleasure. 
Maidens,  let  your  brows  be  crowned 
As  we  foot  this  merry  round. 

From  the  ground  a  voice  is  singing, 
From  the  sod  a  soul  is  springing. 
Who  shall  say  'tis  but  a  clod 
Quick'ning  upward  towards  its  God  ? 

Who  shall  say  it  ?     Who  may  know  it, 
That  the  clod  is  not  a  poet 

Waiting  but  a  gleam  to  waken 

In  a  spirit  music-shaken  ? 

Phyllis,  Phyllis,  why  be  waiting  ? 

In  the  woods  the  birds  are  mating. 
From  the  tree  beside  the  wall, 
Hear  the  am'rous  robin  call. 

Listen  to  yon  thrush's  trilling ; 
Phyllis,  Phyllis,  are  you  willing, 

When  love  speaks  from  cave  and  tree, 

Only  we  should  silent  be  ? 

When  the  year,  itself  renewing, 
All  the  world  with  flowers  is  strewing, 
Then  through  Youth's  Arcadian  land, 
Love  and  song  go  hand  in  hand. 

Come,  unfold  your  vocal  treasure. 

Sing  with  me  a  nuptial  measure, — 
Let  this  spring-time  gambol  be 
Bridal  dance  for  you  and  me. 


204 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


TO  E.  H.  K. 

ON  THE  RECEIPT  OF  A  FAMILIAR   POEM 

To  me,  like  hauntings  of  a  vagrant  breath 
From  some  far  forest  which  I  once  have 

known, 
The  perfume  of  this  flower  of  verse  is 

blown. 

Tho'  seemingly  soul-blossoms  faint  to  death, 
Naught  that  with  joy  she  bears  e'er  with- 

ereth. 
So,  tho'  the  pregnant  years  have  come 

and  flown, 
Lives  come  and  gone  and  altered  like 

mine  own, 
This  poem  comes  to  me  a  shibboleth: 


Brings  sound  of  past  communings  to  my 

ear, 
Turns  round  the  tide  of  time  and  bears 

me  back 
Along  an  old  and   long  untraversed 

way; 

Makes  me  forget  this  is  a  later  year, 
Makes  me  tread  o'er  a  reminiscent  track, 
Half  sad,  half  glad,  to  one  forgotten 
day ! 


VENGEANCE  IS  SWEET 

When  I  was  young  I  longed  for  Love, 

And  held  his  glory  far  above 

All  other  earthly  things.     I  cried : 

"  Come,  Love,  dear  Love,  with  me  abide ;  " 

And  with  my  subtlest  art  I  wooed, 

And  eagerly  the  wight  pursued. 

But  Love  was  gay  and  Love  was  shy, 

He  laughed  at  me  and  passed  me  by. 

Well,  I  grew  old  and  I  grew  gray, 
When  Wealth   came  wending  down  my 

way. 

I  took  his  golden  hand  with  glee, 
And  comrades  from  that  day  were  we. 
Then  Love  came  back  with  doleful  face, 
And  prayed  that  I  would  give  him  place. 
But,  though  his  eyes  with  tears  were  dim, 
I  turned  my  back  and  laughed  at  him. 


A  HYMN 

AFTER   READING  "  LEAD,  KINDLY  LIGHT. 
Lead  gently,  Lord,  and  slow, 

For  oh,  my  steps  are  weak, 
And  ever  as  I  go, 

Some  soothing  sentence  speak ; 

That  I  may  turn  my  face 
Through  doubt's  obscurity 

Towards  thine  abiding-place, 
E'en  tho'  I  cannot  see. 

For  lo,  the  way  is  dark  ; 

Through  mist  and  cloud  I  grope, 
Save  for  that  fitful  spark, 

The  little  flame  of  hope. 

Lead  gently,  Lord,  and  slow, 
For  fear  that  I  may  fall ; 

I  know  not  where  to  go 
Unless  I  hear  thy  call. 

My  fainting  soul  doth  yearn 
For  thy  green  hills  afar ; 

So  let  thy  mercy  burn  — 
My  greater,  guiding  star ! 


JUST  WHISTLE  A  BIT 

Just  whistle  a  bit,  if  the  day  be  dark, 

And  the  sky  be  overcast : 
If  mute  be  the  voice  of  the  piping  lark, 

Why,  pipe  your  own  small  blast. 

And  it's  wonderful  how  o'er  the  gray  sky- 
track 

The  truant  warbler  comes  stealing  back. 

But  why  need  he  come  ?  for  your  soul's  at 
rest, 

And  the  song  in  the  heart, — ah,  that  is 
best. 

Just  whistle  a  bit,  if  the  night  be  drear 
And  the  stars  refuse  to  shine : 

And  a  gleam  that  mocks  the  starlight  clear 
Within  you  glows  benign. 

Till  the  dearth  of  light  in  the  glooming 

skies 

Is  lost  to  the  sight  of  your  soul-lit  eyes. 
What  matters  the  absence  of  moon  or  star  ? 
The  light  within  is  the  best  by  far. 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


205 


Just  whistle  a  bit,  if  there's  work  to  do, 

With  the  mind  or  in  the  soil. 
And   your  note  will   turn  out  a  talisman 
true 

To  exorcise  grim  Toil. 

It  will  lighten  your  burden  and  make  you 

feel 
That  there's  nothing  like  work  as  a  sauce 

for  a  meal. 
And  with  song  in  your  heart  and  the  meal 

in — its  place, 
There'll  be  joy  in  your  bosom  and  light  in 

your  face. 

Just  whistle  a  bit,  if  your  heart  be  sore 
'Tis  a  wonderful  balm  for  pain. 

Just  pipe  some  old  melody  o'er  and  o'ei 
Till  it  soothes  like  summer  rain. 

And  perhaps  'twould  be  best  in  a  later  day, 
When  Death  comes  stalking  down  the  way, 
To  knock  at  your  bosom  and  see  if  you're 

fit, 
Then,  as  you  wait  calmly,  just  whistle  a 

bit. 


THE  BARRIER 

The  Midnight  wooed  the  Morning-Star, 
And  prayed  her :   "  Love,  come  nearer ; 

Your  swinging  coldly  there  afar 
To  me  but  makes  you  dearer !  " 

The  Morning-Star  was  pale  with  dole 

As  said  she,  low  replying  : 
"Oh,  lover  mine,  soul  of  my  soul, 

For  you  I  too  am  sighing. 

"  But  One  ordained  when  we  were  born, 

In  spite  of  Love's  insistence, 
That  Night  might  only  view  the  Morn 

Adoring  at  a  distance." 

But  as  she  spoke  the  jealous  Sun 

Across  the  heavens  panted. 
"  Oh,  whining  fools,"  he  cried,  "  have    one ; 

Your  wishes  shall  be  granted !  " 

He  hurled  his  flaming  lances  far ; 

The  twain  stood  unaffrighted  — 
And  midnight  and  the  Morning-Star 

Lay  down  in  death  united ! 


DREAMS 

Dream  on,  for  dreams  are  sweet  : 

Do  not  awaken ! 
Dream  on,  arid  at  thy  feet 

Pomegranates  shall  be  shaken. 

Who  likeneth  the  youth 

Of  life  to  morning  ? 
'Tis  like  the  night  in  truth, 

Rose-colored  dreams  adorning. 

The  wind  is  soft  above, 

The  shadows  umber. 
(There  is  a  dream  called  Love.) 

Take  thou  the  fullest  slumber! 

In  Lethe's  soothing  stream, 
Thy  thirst  thou  slakest. 

Sleep,  sleep  ;  'tis  sweet  to  dream. 
Oh,  weep  when  thou  awakest ! 


THE  DREAMER 

Temples  he  built  and  palaces  of  air, 
And,  with  the  artist's  parent-pride  aglow, 
His  fancy  saw  his  vague  ideals  grow 

Into  creations  marvelously  fair  ; 

He  set  his  foot  upon  Fame's  nether  stair. 
But  ah,  his  dream, — it  had  entranced 

him  so 

He    could   not   move.      He    could   no 
farther  go ; 

But  paused  in  joy  that  he  was  even  there  ! 

He   did   not   wake   until   one   day   there 

gleamed 
Thro'    his   dark    consciousness   a    light 

that  racked 

His  being  till  he  rose,  alert  to  act. 
But  lo !  what  he  had  dreamed,  the  while 

he  dreamed, 

Another,  wedding  action  unto  thought, 
Into    the    living,    pulsing    world    had 
-brought. 


WAITING 

The  sun  has  slipped  his  tether 

And  galloped  down  the  west. 
(Oh,  it's  weary,  weary  waiting,  love.) 


206 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


The  little  bird  is  sleeping 

In  the  softness  of  its  nest. 
Night  follows  day,  day  follows  dawn, 
And  so  the  time  has  come  and  gone  : 

And  it's  weary,  weary  waiting,  love. 

The  cruel  wind  is  rising 

With  a  whistle  and  a  wail. 
(And  it's  weary,  weary  waiting,  love.) 
My  eyes  are  seaward  straining 

For  the  coming  of  a  sail ; 
But  void  the  sea,  and  void  the  beach 
Far  and  beyond  where  gaze  can  reach  ! 

And  it's  weary,  weary  waiting,  love. 

I  heard  the  bell-buoy  ringing  — 

How  long  ago  it  seems ! 
(Oh,  it's  weary,  weary  waiting,  love.) 
And  ever  still,  its  knelling 

Crashes  in  upon  my  dreams. 
The  banns  were  read,  my  frock  was  sewn ; 
Since    then    two    seasons'    winds     have 
blown  — 

And  it's  weary,  weary  waiting,  love. 

The  stretches  of  the  ocean 

Are  bare  and  bleak  to-day. 
(Oh,  it's  weary,  weary  waiting,  love.) 
My  eyes  are  growing  dimmer  — 

Is  it  tears,  or  age,  or  spray  ? 
But  I  will  stay  till  you  come  home. 
Strange  ships  come  in  across  the  foam  ! 

But  it's  weary,  weary  waiting,  love. 


THE  END  OF  THE  CHAPTER 

So  prone  is  humanity  to  "jump  at  con- 
clusions "  that  when  the  newspaper  chron- 
iclers set  about  finding  "  things  ,  to  say  " 
about  Paul  Laurence  Dunbar  at  the  time 
of  his  death,  they  unanimously  concluded 
that  this  poem  referred  to  the  end  of  Mr. 
Dunbar's  married  life,  and  so  stated  with- 
out reservation.  A  careful  study  of  his 
work  reveals  the  fact  that  these  stanzas 
were,  written  long  before  his  marriage, 
and  were  no  doubt  suggested  by  the*  un- 
happy termination  of  some  other  man's 
connubial  happiness. 

That  they  proved  startlingly  prophetic 
in  his  own  case  cannot  be  denied,  for,  as 


he  said  for  another  he  might  well  have 
said  for  himself — 

— "  so  close  the  book. 
But  brought  it  grief  or  brought  it  bliss, 
No  other  page  shall  read  like  this  1  " 


No  one  will  deny  that  while  he  had, 
like  all  poets,  hundreds  of  "passing 
fancies  "  for  fair  woman,  he  was  a  man  of 
one  great  passion,  and  that  was  for  his 
estranged  wife. 

Ah,  yes,  the  chapter  ends  to-day; 
We  even  lay  the  book  away ; 
But  oh,  how  sweet  the  moments  sped 
Before  the  final  page  was  read  ! 

We  tried  to  read  between  the  lines 
The  Author's  deep-concealed  designs  ; 
But  scant  reward  such  search  secures ; 
You  saw  my  heart  and  I  saw  yours. 

The  Master, — he  who  penned  the  page 
And  bade  us  read  it, — he  is  sage  : 
And  what  he  orders,  you  and  I 
Can  but  obey,  nor  question  why. 

% 

We  read  together  and  forgot 
The  world  about  us.     Time  was  not. 
Unheeded  and  unfelt,  it  fled. 
We  read  and  hardly  knew  we  read. 

Until  beneath  a  sadder  sun, 
We  came  to  know  the  book  was  done. 
Then,  as  our  minds  were  but  new  lit, 
It  dawned  upon  us  what  was  writ; 

And  we  were  startled.     In  our  eyes, 
Looked  forth  the  light  of  great  surprise. 
Then  as  a  deep-toned  tocsin  tolls, 
A  voice  spoke  forth :  "  Behold  your  souls !  " 

I  do,  I  do.     I  cannot  look 
Into  your  eyes :  so  close  the  book. 
But  brought  it  grief  or  brought  it  bliss, 
No  other  page  shall  read  like  this ! 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


207 


SYMPATHY 

I  know  what  the  caged  bird  feels,  alas ! 
When  the  sun  is  bright  on  the  upland 

slopes ; 
When    the    wind  stirs   soft   through  the 

springing  grass, 

And  the  river  flows  like  a  stream  of  glass ; 
When  the  first  bird  sings  and  the  first 

bud  opes, 
And   the  faint  perfume   from  its  chalice 

steals  — 
I  know  what  the  caged  bird  feels ! 

I  know   why  the  caged   bird   beats    his 

wing 

Till  its  blood  is  red  on  the  cruel  bars ; 
For   he   must  fly  back  to  his  perch  and 

cling 
When  he   fain   would   be  on   the  bough 

a-swing ; 
And  a  pain  still  throbs  in  the  old,  old 

scars 
And    they    pulse    again    with   a   keener 

sting  — 
I  know  why  he  beats  his  wing ! 

I  know  why  the  caged  bird  sings,  ah  me, 
When  his    wing    is    bruised    and    his 

bosom  sore, — 
When  he  beats  his  bars  and  he  would  be 

free; 
It  is  not  a  carol  of  joy  or  glee, 

But  a  prayer    that   he  sends  from  his 

heart's  deep  core, 
But  a  plea,  that  upward  to  Heaven   he 

flings  — 
I  know  why  the  caged  bird  sings ! 

LOVE  AND  GRIEF 

Out  of  my  heart,  one  treach'rous  winter's 

day, 
I  locked  young  Love  and  threw  the  key 

away. 

Grief,  wandering  widely,  found  the  key, 
And  hastened  with   it,  straightway,  back 

to  me, 
With  Love  beside  him.     He  unlocked  the 

door 
And  bade  Love   enter  with  him  there  and 

stay. 
And  so  the  twain  abide  for  evermore. 


LOVE'S   CHASTENING 

Once  Love  grew  bold  and  arrogant  of  air, 
Proud  of  the  youth  that  made  him  fresh 

and  fair ; 
So  unto  Grief  he  spake,  "  What  right  hast 

thou 
To  part  or  parcel  of  this  heart  ?  "     Grief's 

brow 
Was  darkened  with  the  storm  of  inward 

strife ; 
Thrice  smote  he  Love  as  only  he  might 

dare, 
And  Love,  pride  purged,  was  chastened 

all  his  life. 


MORTALITY 

Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  unto  dust, 

What  of  his  loving,  what  of  his  lust  ? 

What  of  his  passion,  what  of  his  pain? 

What  of  his  poverty,  what  of  his  pride  ? 

Earth,  the  great  mother,  has  called  him 
again : 

Deeply  he  sleeps,  the  world's  verdict  de- 
fied. 

Shall  he  be  tried  again  ?    Shall  he  go  free  ? 

Who  shall  the  court  convene  ?  Where 
shall  it  be  ? 

No  answer  on  the  land,  none  from  the  sea. 

Only  we  know  that  as  he  did,  we  must : 

You  with  your  theories,  you  with  your 
trust,  — 

Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  unto  dust ! 

LOVE 

A  life  was  mine  full  of  the  close  concern 
Of  many-voiced  affairs.    The  world  sped 

fast; 

Behind  me,  ever  rolled  a  pregnant  past. 
A  present  came  equipped  with  lore  to  learn. 
Art,  science,  letters,  in  their  turn, 

Each  one  allured  me  with  its  treasures 

vast; 

And  I  staked  all  for  wisdom,  till  at  last 
Thou  cam'st  and  taught  my  soul  anew  to 

yearn. 
I  had  not  dreamed  that  I  could  turn 

away 

From  all  that  men  with  brush  and  pen  had 
wrought ; 


208 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


But  ever  since  that  memorable  day 
When  to  my  heart  the  truth  of  love  was 
brought, 

I  have  been  wholly  yielded  to  its  sway, 
And  had  no  room  for  any  other  thought. 

SHE  GAVE  ME  A  ROSE 
She  gave  me  a  rose, 

And  I  kissed  it  and  pressed  it. 
I  love  her,  she  knows, 

And  my  action  confessed  it. 
She  gave  me  a  rose, 

And  I  kissed  it  and  pressed  it. 

Ah,  how  my  heart  glows, 

Could  I  ever  have  guessed  it  ? 

It  is  fair  to  suppose 

That  I  might  have  repressed  it : 

She  gave  me  a  rose, 

And  I  kissed  it  and  pressed  it. 

'Twas  a  rhyme  in  life's  prose 
That  uplifted  and  blest  it. 

Man's  nature,  who  knows 
Until  love  comes  to  test  it  ? 

She  gave  me  a  rose, 
And  I  kissed  it  and  pressed  it. 

DREAM  SONG.    I 
Long  years  ago,  within  a  distant  clime, 
Ere  Love  had  touched  me  with  his  wand 

sublime, 
I  dreamed  of  one  to  make  my  life's  calm 

May 

The  panting  passion  of  a  summer's  day. 
And  ever  since,  in  almost  sad  suspense, 
I  have  been  waiting  with  a  soul  intense 
To  greet  and  take  unto  myself  the  beams, 
Of  her,  my  star,  the  lady  of  my  dreams. 

O  Love,  still  longed  and  looked  for,  come 

to  me, 

Be  thy  far  home  by  mountain,  vale,  or  sea. 
My  yearning  heart  may  never  find  its  rest 
Until  thou  liest  rapt  upon  my  breast. 
The  wind  may  bring  its  perfume  from  the 

south, 
Is  it  so  sweet  as  breath  from  my  love's 

mouth  ? 
Oh,  naught  that  surely  is,  and  naught  that 

seems 
May  turn  me  from  the  lady  of  my  dreams. 


DREAM  SONG.     II 

Pray,  what  can  dreams  avail 
To  make  love  or  to  mar  ? 

The  child  within  the  cradle  rail 
Lies  dreaming  of  the  star. 

But  is  the  star  by  this  beguiled 

To  leave  its  place  and  seek  the  child  ? 

The  poor  plucked  rose  within  its  glass 
Still  dreameth  of  the  bee ; 

But,  tho'  the  lagging  moments  pass, 
Her  Love  she  may  not  see. 

If  dream  of  child  and  flower  fail, 

Why  should  a  maiden's  dreams  prevail  ? 

CHRISTMAS  IN  THE  HEART 

The  snow  lies  deep  upon  the  ground, 
And  winter's  brightness  all  around 
Decks  bravely  out  the  forest  sere, 
With  jewels  of  the  brave  old  year. 
The  coasting  crowd  upon  the  hill 
With  some  new  spirit  seems  to  thrill; 
And  all  the  temple  bells  achime 
Ring  out  the  glee  of  Christmas  time. 

In  happy  homes  the  brown  oak-bough 

Vies  with  the  red-gemmed  holly  now ; 

And  here  and  there,  like  pearls,  there  show 

The  berries  of  the  mistletoe. 

A  sprig  upon  the  chandelier 

Says  to  the  maidens,  "  Come  not  here !  " 

Even  the  pauper  of  the  earth 

Some  kindly  gift  has  cheered  to  mirth  ! 

Within  his  chamber,  dim  and  cold, 

There  sits  a  grasping  miser  old. 

He  has  no  thought  save  one  of  gain, — 

To  grind  and  gather  and  grasp  and  drain. 

A  peal  of  bells,  a  merry  shout 

Assail  his  ear :  he  gazes  out 

Upon  a  world  to  him  all  gray, 

And  snarls,  "  Why,  this  is  Christmas  Day ! " 

No,  man  of  ice, — for  shame,  for  shame  ! 
For  "  Christmas  Day  "  is  no  mere  name. 
No,  not  for  you  this  ringing  cheer, 
This  festal  season  of  the  year. 
And  not  for  you  the  chime  of  bells 
From  holy  temple  rolls  and  swells. 
In  day  and  deed  he  has  no  part  — 
Who  holds  not  Christmas  in  his  heart ! 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


209 


THE  KING  IS  DEAD 

Aye,  lay  him  in  his  grave,  the  old  dead 

year! 

His  life  is  lived — fulfilled  his  destiny. 
Have  you  for  him  no  sad,  regretful  tear 
To  drop  beside  the  cold,  unfollowed  bier  ? 
Can  you  not  pay  the  tribute  of  a  sigh  ? 

Was  he  not  kind  to  you,  this  dead  old  year  ? 
Did  he  not  give  enough  of  earthly  store  ? 
Enough  of  love,  and  laughter,  and  good 

cheer  ? 
Have  not  the  skies  you  scanned  sometimes 

been  clear  ? 
How,  then,  of  him  who  dies,  could  you  ask 


It  is  not  well  to  hate  him  for  the  pain 
He  brought  you,  and  the  sorrows  manifold. 
To  pardon  him  these  hurts  still  I  am  fain ; 
For  in  the  panting  period  of  his  reign, 
He  brought  me  new  wounds,  but  he  healed 
the  old. 

One  little  sigh  for  thee,  my  poor,  dead 

friend  — 

One  little  sigh  while  my  companions  sing. 
Thou  art  so  soon  forgotten  in  the  end  ; 
We  cry  e'en   as   thy  footsteps  downward 

tend: 
"  The  king  is  dead !  long  live  the  king!  " 


THEOLOGY 

There  is  a  heaven,  forever,  day  by  day, 
The  upward  longing  of  my   soul  doth 

tell  me  so. 

There  is  a  hell,  I'm  quite  as  sure ;  for  pray, 
If  there    were    not,    where    would    my 
neighbors  go  ? 


RESIGNATION 

Long  had  I  grieved   at  what  I  deemed 

abuse ; 

But  now  I  am  as  grain  within  the  mill. 
If  so  be  thou  must  crush  me  for  thy  use, 
Grind  on,  O  potent  God,  and  do  thy 
will! 


LOVE'S  HUMILITY 

As  some  rapt  gazer  on  the  lowly  earth, 
Looks  up  to  radiant    planets,  ranging 

far, 
So  I,  whose  soul  doth  know  thy  wondrous 

worth 
Look  longing  up  to  thee  as  to  a  star. 

PRECEDENT 

The   poor   man   went   to   the  rich  man's 

doors, 

"  I  come  as  Lazarus  came,"  he  said. 
The  rich  man  turned  with  humble  head, — 
"  I  will  send  my  dogs  to  lick  your  sores  !  " 

SHE  TOLD  HER  BEADS 

She  told  her  beads  with  downcast  eyes, 

Within  the  ancient  chapel  dim  ; 

And  ever  as  her  fingers  slim 
Slipt  o'er  th'  insensate  ivories, 
My  rapt  soul  followed,  spaniel-wise. 

Ah,  many  were  the  beads  she  wore ; 

But  as  she  told  them  o'er  and  o'er, 
They  did  not  number  all  my  sighs. 
My  heart  was  filled  with  unvoiced  cries 

And     prayers     and      pleadings     unex- 
pressed ; 

But  while  I  burned  with  Love's  unrest. 
She  told  her  beads  with  downcast  eyes. 

LITTLE  LUCY  LANDMAN 

Oh,  the  day  has  set  me  dreaming 

In  a  strange,  half  solemn  way 
Of  the  feelings  I  experienced 

On  another  long  past  day, — 
Of  the  way  my  heart  made  music 

When  the  buds  began  to  blow, 
And  o'  little  Lucy  Landman 

Whom  I  loved  long  years  ago. 

It's  in  spring,  the  poet  tells  us, 

That  we  turn  to  thoughts  of  love, 
And  our  hearts  go  out  a-wooing 

With  the  lapwing  and  the  dove. 
But  whene'er  the  soul  goes  seeking 

Its  twin-soul,  upon  the  wing, 
I've  a  notion,  backed  by  mem'ry, 

That  it's  love  that  makes  the  spring. 


210 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


I  have  heard  a  robin  singing 

When  the  boughs  were  brown  and  bare, 
And  the  chilling  hand  of  winter 

Scattered  jewels  through  the  air. 
And  in  spite  of  dates  and  seasons, 

It  was  always  spring,  I  know, 
When  I  loved  Lucy  Landman 

In  the  days  of  long  ago. 

Ah,  my  little  Lucy  Landman, 

I  remember  you  as  well 
As  if  'twere  only  yesterday 

I  strove  your  thoughts  to  tell, — 
When  I  tilted  back  your  bonnet, 

Looked  into  your  eyes  so  true, 
Just  to  see  if  you  were  loving 

Me  as  I  was  loving  you. 

Ah,  my  little  Lucy  Landman 

It  is  true  it  was  denied 
You  should  see  a  fuller  summer 

And  an  autumn  by  my  side. 
But  the  glance  of  love's  sweet  sunlight 

Which  your  eyes  that  morning  gave 
Has  kept  spring  within  my  bosom, 

Though  you  lie  within  the  grave. 


THE  KNIGHT  . 

Our  good  knight,  Ted,  girds  his  broad- 
sword on 

(And  he  wields  it  well,  I  ween) ; 
He's  on  his  steed,  and  away  has  gone 

To  the  fight  for  king  and  queen. 
What  tho'  no  edge  the  broadsword  hath  ? 
What  tho'  the  blade  be  made  of  lath? 

'Tis  a  valiant  hand 

That  wields  the  brand, 
So,  foeman,  clear  the  path  ! 

He  prances  off  at  a  goodly  pace ; 

'Tis  a  noble  steed  he  rides, 
That  bears  as  well  in  the  speedy  race 

As  he  bears  in  battle-tides. 
What  tho'  'tis  but  a  rocking-chair 
That  prances  with  this  stately  air  ? 

'Tis  a  warrior  bold 

The  reins  doth  hold, 
Who  bids  all  foes  beware ! 


LULLABY 

Bedtime's  come  fu'  little  boys. 

Po'  little  lamb. 
Too  tiahed  out  to  make  a  noise, 

Po'  little  lamb. 

You  gwine  t'  have  to-morrer  sho'  ? 
Yes,  you  tole  me  dat  befo', 
Don't  you  fool  me,  chile,  no  mo', 

Po'  little  lamb. 


You  been  bad  de  livelong  day, 

Po'  little  lamb. 
Th'owin'  stones  an'  runnin'  'way, 

Po'  little  lamb. 
My,  but  you's  a-runnin'  wiF, 
Look  jes'  lak  some  po'  folks  chile ; 
Mam'  gwine  whup  you  atter  while, 

Po'  little  lamb. 


Come  hyeah !  you  mos'  tiahed  to  def, 

Po'  little  lamb. 
Played  yo'se'f  clean  out  o'  bref, 

Po'  little  lamb. 

See  dem  han's  now — sich  a  sight ! 
Would  you  evah  b'lieve  dey's  white  ? 
Stan'  still  twell  I  wash  'em  right, 

Po'  little  lamb. 


Jes'  cain't  hoi'  yo'  haid  up  straight, 

Po'  little  lamb. 
Hadn't  oughter  played  so  late, 

Po'  little  lamb. 

Mammy  do'  know  whut  she'd  do, 
Ef  de  chillun's  all  lak  you ; 
You's  a  caution  now  fu'  true, 

Po'  little  lamb. 

Lay  yo'  haid  down  in  my  lap, 

Po'  little  lamb. 
\    ought  to  have  a  right  good  slap, 

Po'  little  Iamb. 

You  been  runnin'  roun'  a  heap. 
Shet  dem  eyes  an'  don't  you  peep, 
Dah  now,  dah  now,  go  to  sleep, 

Po'  little  lamb. 


Po'  LITTLE  LAMB 


DAT'S  MY  GAL 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


213 


THOU  ART  MY  LUTE 

Thou  art  my  lute,  by  thee  I  sing, — 
My  being  is  attuned  to  thee. 

Thou  settest  all  my  words  a-wing, 
And  meltest  me  to  melody. 

Thou  art  my  life,  by  thee  I  live, 

From  thee  proceed  the  joys  I  know ; 

Sweetheart,  thy  hand  has  power  to  give 
The  meed  of  love — the  cup  of  woe. 

Thou  art  my  love,  by  thee  I  lead 
My  soul  the  paths  of  light  along, 

From  vale  to  vale,  from  mead  to  mead, 
And  home  it  in  the  hills  of  song. 

My  song,  my  soul,  my  life,  my  all, 
Why  need  I  pray  or  make  my  plea, 

Since  my  petition  cannot  fall ; 
For  I'm  already  one  with  thee ! 


THE  PHANTOM  KISS 

One  night  in  my  room,  still  and  beamless, 
With  will  and  with  thought  in  eclipse, 

I  rested  in  sleep  that  was  dreamless  ; 
When  softly  there  fell  on  my  lips 

A  touch,  as  of  lips  that  were  pressing 
Mine  own  with  the  message  of  bliss  — 

A  sudden,  soft,  fleeting  caressing, 
A  breath  like  a  maiden's  first  kiss. 

I  woke — and  the  scoffer  may  doubt  me  — 
.1  peered  in  surprise  through  the  gloom; 

But  nothing  and  none  were  about  me, 
And  I  was  alone  in  my  room. 

Perhaps  'twas  the  wind  that  caressed  me 
And  touched  me  with  dew-laden  breath  ; 

Or,  maybe,  close-sweeping,  there  passed 

me 
The  low-winging  Angel  of  Death. 

Some  sceptic  may  choose  to  disdain  it, 
Or  one  feign  to  read  it  aright ; 

Or  wisdom  may  seek  to  explain  it  — 
This  mystical  kiss  in  the  night. 


But  rather  let  fancy  thus  clear  it : 
That,  thinking  of  me  here  alone, 

The   miles   were   made   naught,  and,   in 

spirit, 
Thy  lips,  love,  were  laid  on  mine  own. 


THE  PHOTOGRAPH 

See  dis  piety  ah  in  my  han'  ? 

Dat's  my  gal ; 
Ain't  she  purty  ?  goodness  Ian' ! 

Huh  name  Sal. 
Dat's  de  very  way  she  be  -*• 
Kin'  o*  tickles  me  to  see 
Huh  a-smilin'  back  at  me. 

She  sont  me  dis  photygraph 

Jes'  las'  week ; 
An'  aldough  hit  made  me  laugh  • 

My  black  cheek 
Felt  somethin'  a-runnin'  queer  ; 
Bless  yo'  soul,  it  was  a  tear 
Jes'  f 'om  wishm'  she  was  here. 

Often  when  I's  all  alone 

Layin'  here, 
I  git  t'inkin'  'bout  my  own 

Sallie  dear ; 

How  she  say  dat  I's  huh  beau, 
An'  hit  tickles  me  to  know 
Dat  de  gal  do  love  me  so. 

Some  bright  day  I's  goin*  back, 

Fo'  de  la ! 
An'  ez  sho'  's  my  face  is  black, 

Ax  huh  pa 

Fu'  de  blessed  little  miss 
Who's  a-smilin'  out  o'-  dis 
Pictyah,  lak  she  wan'ed  a  kiss  I 


COMMUNION 

In  the  silence  of  my  heart, 

I  will  spend  an  hour  with  thee, 

When  my  love  shall  rend  apart 
All  the  veil  of  mystery : 

All  that  dim  and  misty  veil 
That  shut  in  between  our  souls 

When  Death  cried,  "  Ho,  maiden,  hail !  " 
And  your  barque  sped  on  the  shoals. 


214 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


On  the  shoals  ?     Nay,  wrongly  said. 

On  the  breeze  of  Death  that  sweeps 
Far  from  life,  thy  soul  has  sped 

Out  into  unsounded  deeps. 

I  shall  take  an  hour  and  come 
Sailing,  darling,  to  thy  side. 

Wind  nor  sea  may  keep  me  from 
Soft  communings  with  my  bride. 

I  shall  rest  my  head  on  thee 
As  I  did  long  days  of  yore, 

When  a  calm,  untroubled  sea 
Rocked  thy  vessel  at  the  shore. 

I  shall  take  thy  hand  in  mine, 
And  live  o'er  the  olden  days 

When  thy  smile  to  me  was  wine, — 
Golden  wine  thy  word  of  praise, 

For  the  carols  I  had  wrought 

In  my  soul's  simplicity ; 
For  the  petty  beads  of  thought 

Which  thine  eyes  alone  could  see. 

Ah,  those  eyes,  love-blind,  but  keen 
For  my  welfare  and  my  weal ! 

Tho'  the  grave-door  shut  between, 
Still  their  love-lights  o'er  me  steal. 

I  can  see  thee  thro'  my  tears, 
As  thro*  rain  we  see  the  sun. 

What  tho'  cold  and  cooling  years 
Shall  their  bitter  courses  run, — 

I  shall  see  thee  still  and  be 

Thy  true  lover  evermore, 
And  thy  face  shall  be  to  me 

Dear  and  helpful  as  before. 

Death  may  vaunt  and  Death  may  boast, 
But  we  laugh  his  pow'r  to  scorn  ; 

He  is  but  a  slave  at  most, — 

Night  that  heralds  coming  morn. 

I  shall  spend  an  hour  with  thee 
Day  by  day,  my  little  bride. 

True  love  laughs  at  mystery, 

Crying,  "  Doors  of  Death,  fly  wide." 


THE  GOURD 

In  the  heavy  earth  the  miner 

Toiled  and  labored  day  by  day, 
Wrenching  from  the  miser  mountain 

Brilliant  treasure  where  it  lay. 
And  the  artist  worn  and  weary 

Wrought  with  labor  manifold 
That  the  king  might  drink  his  nectar 

From  a  goblet  made  of  gold. 

On  the  prince's  groaning  table 

'Mid  the  silver  gleaming  bright 
Mirroring  the  happy  faces 

Giving  back  the  flaming  light, 
Shine  the  cups  of  priceless  crystal 

Chased  with  many  a  lovely  line, 
Glowing  now  with  warmer  color, 

Crimsoned  by  the  ruby  wine. 

In  a  valley  sweet  with  sunlight, 

Fertile  with  the  dew  and  rain, 
Without  miner's  daily  labor, 

Without  artist's  nightly  pain, 
There  there  grows  the  cup  I  drink  from, 

Summer's  sweetness  in  it  stored, 
And  my  lips  pronounce  a  blessing 

As  they  touch  an  old  brown  gourd. 

Why,  the  miracle  at  Cana 

In  the  land  of  Galilee, 
Tho'  it  puzzles  all  the  scholars, 

Is  no  longer  strange  to  me. 
For  the  poorest  and  the  humblest 

Could  a  priceless  wine  afford, 
If  they'd  only  dip  up  water 

With  a  sunlight-seasoned  gourd. 

So  a  health  to  my  old  comrade, 

And  a  song  of  praise  to  sing 
When  he  rests  inviting  kisses 

In  his  place  beside  the  spring. 
Give  the  king  his  golden  goblets, 

Give  the  prince  his  crystal  hoard ; 
But  for  me  the  sparkling  water 

From  a  brown  and  brimming  gourd ! 

MARE  RUBRUM 

In  Life's   Red  Sea   with  faith  I  plant  my 

feet, 

And  wait  the   sound  of  that  sustaining 
word 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


215 


Which    long    ago    the    men  of  Israel 

heard, 
When  Pharaoh's  host  behind  them,  fierce 

and  fleet, 
Raged    on,    consuming    with    revengeful 

heat. 

Why   are    the    barrier    waters  still   un- 
stirred ?  — 
That  struggling  faith  may  die  of  hope 

deferred  ? 
Is  God  not  sitting  in  his  ancient  seat  ? 


The   billows   swirl   above   my   trembling 

limbs, 
And  almost  chill  my  anxious  heart  to 

doubt 
And   disbelief,    long   conquered   and 

defied. 

But  tho'  the   music  of  my  hopeful  hymns 
Is   drowned   by   curses   of   the    raging 

rout, 

No  voice  yet  bids  th'  opposing  waves 
divide ! 


IN  AN  ENGLISH  GARDEN 

In  view  of  the  fact  that  Mr.  Dunbar 
had  left  a  sweetheart  in  America,  and  that 
they  had  become  betrothed  just  before  he 
sailed  for  England,  it  is  not  hard  to  under- 
stand why  the  subtle  scents  and  ancient 
beauties  of  an  old-world  garden  served 
only  to  bring  him  a  poignant  heart-ache 
and  an  overpowering  longing  for  home 
and  love. 

In  this  old  garden,  fair,  I  walk  to-day 
Heart-charmed  with  all  the    beauty  of 

the  scene : 
The    rich,    luxuriant  -grasses'    cooling 

green, 

The  wall's  environ,  ivy-decked  and  gray, 
The  waving  branches  with  the    wind  at 

play, 
The  slight  and  tremulous  blooms  that 

show  between, 
Sweet  all :  and  yet  my  yearning  heart 

doth  lean 

Towards  Love's   Egyptian   flesh-pots   far 
away. 


Beside    the    wall,    the    slim    Laburnum 

grows 
And  flings  its  golden  flow'rs  to  every 

breeze. 
But  e'en  among  such  soothing  sights  as 

these, 

I  pant  and  nurse  my  soul-devouring  woes. 
Of  all  the  longings  that  our  hearts  wot  of, 
There  is  no  hunger  like  the  want  of  love  ! 

THE  CRISIS 

A  man  of  low  degree  was  sore  oppressed, 
Fate  held  him  under  iron-handed  sway, 
And  ever,  those  who   saw  him  thus  dis- 
tressed 
Would  bid  him  bend  his  stubborn  will 

and  pray. 

But  he,  strong  in  himself  and  obdurate, 
Waged,    prayerless,    on    his    losing    fight 
with  Fate. 

Friends   gave    his    proffered    hand   their 

coldest  clasp, 

Or  took  it  not  at  all ;  and  Poverty, 
That    bruised    his    body   with   relentless 

grasp, 
Grinned,  taunting,  when  he  struggled 

to  be  free. 
But  though  with  helpless  hands  he  beat 

the  air, 
His  need  extreme  yet  found  no  voice  in 

prayer. 

Then  he  prevailed ;  and  forthwith   snob- 
bish Fate, 

Like  some  whipped  cur,  came  fawning 
at  his  feet ; 

Those  who  had  scorned  forgave  and  called 

him  great  — 

His  friends  found   out   that  friendship 
still  was  sweet. 

But  he,  once   obdurate,  now  bowed  his 
head 

In  prayer,  and  trembling  with  its  import, 
said : 

"  Mere    human    strength    may  stand    ill- 
fortune's  frown ; 

So  I  prevailed,  for  human  strength  was 
mine; 

But   from   the   killing  pow'r  of  great  re- 
nown, 


216 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


Naught  may  protect  me  save  a  strength 
divine. 

Help  me,  O  Lord,  in  this  my  trembling 
cause ; 

I  scorn  men's  curses,  but  I  dread  ap- 
plause !  " 

THE   CONQUERORS 

THE  BLACK   TROOPS    IN   CUBA 

Round  the  wide  earth,  from  the  red  field 
your  valor  has  won, 

Blown  with  the  breath  of  the  far-speaking 

gun, 
Goes  the  word. 

Bravely  you  spoke  through  the  battle  cloud 
heavy  and  dun. 

Tossed  though  the  speech  towards  the  mist- 
hidden  sun, 
The  world  heard. 

Hell  would  have  shrunk  from  you  seeking 

it  fresh  from  the  fray, 
Grim  with  the  dust  of  the  battle,  and  gray 

From  the  fight. 

Heaven  would  have  crowned  you,  with 
crowns  not  of  gold  but  of 
bay, 

Owning  you  fit  for  the  light  of  her  day, 
Men  of  night. 

Far  through  the  cycle  of  years  and  of  lives 

that  shall  come, 
There  shall  speak  voices  long  muffled  and 

dumb, 
Out  of  fear. 
And  through  the  noises  of  trade  and  the 

turbulent  hum, 

Truth  shall  rise  over  the  militant  drum, 
Loud  and  clear. 

Then  on  the  cheek  of  the  honester  nation 

that  grows, 
All  for   their  love  of  you,  not   for  your 

woes, 

There  shall  lie 
Tears  ihat  shall  be  to  your  souls  as  the  dew 

to  the  rose; 
Afterwards   thanks,  that  the  present  yet 

knows 
Not  to  ply ! 


ALEXANDER  CRUMMELL— DEAD 

Back  to  the  breast  of  thy  mother, 

Child  of  the  earth  ! 

E'en  her  caress  cannot  smother 

What  thou  hast  done. 

Follow  the  trail  of  the  westering  sun 

Ove'r  the  earth. 

Thy  light  and  his  were  as  one  — 

Sun,  in  thy  worth. 

Unto  a  nation  whose  sky  was  as  night, 

Camest  thou,  holily,  bearing  thy  light  : 

And  the  dawn  came, 

In  it  thy  fame 

Flashed  up  in  a  flame. 


Back  to  the  breast  of  thy  mother  — 

To  rest. 

Long  hast  thou  striven  ; 

Dared  where  the  hills  by  the  lightning  of 

heaven  were  riven ; 
Go  now,  pure  shriven. 
Who  shall  come  after  thee,  out  of  the  clay  — 
Learned  one  and  leader  to   show  us  the 

way? 
Who  shall  rise  up  when  the  world  gives 

the  test  ? 

Think  thou  no  more  of  this  — 
Rest! 


WHEN  ALL  IS  DONE 

To  any  one  who  viewed  the  dead  face 
of  Paul  Laurence  Dunbar,  after  the  long; 
hard  race  was  done,  there  could  but  come 
the  memory  of  this  poem,  and  one  could 
not  but  be  grateful  to  him  for  having  said 
these  so  plainly  and  in  such  a  simple  way. 

There  was  no  trace  of  pain  upon  his 
features,  naught  that  could  suggest  any- 
thing but  peace  and  deep  content.  Those 
who  loved  him  could  not  keep  back  the 
tears  because  of  their  loss,  but  no  one  who 
saw  him  at  the  last  feared  that  he  was  oth- 
erwise than  gloriously  at  rest !  He  had 
indeed  "  greeted  the  dawn,"  though  it  was 
near  the  hour  of  the  setting  of  an  earthly 
winter's  sun  that  he  broke  the  last  of  his 
prison  bars,  and  freedom  found  at  last. 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


217 


When  all  is  done,  and  my  last  word  is  said, 
And  ye  who  loved  me   murmur,  "  He  is 

dead," 
Let  no  one  weep,  for  fear  that  I  should 

know, 
And  sorrow  too  that  ye  should  sorrow  so. 

When  all  is  done  and  in  the  oozing  clay, 
Ye  lay  this  cast-off  hull  of  mine  away, 
Pray  not  for  me,  for,  after  long  despair, 
The  quiet  of  the  grave  will  be  a  prayer. 

For  I  have  suffered  loss  and  grievous  pain, 

The  hurts  of  hatred  and  the  world's  dis- 
dain, 

And  wounds  so  deep  that  love,  well-tried 
and  pure, 

Had  not  the  pow'r  to  ease  them  or  to  cure. 

When  all  is  done,  say  not  my  day  is  o'er, 
And   that   thro'  night    I    seek   a    dimmer 

shore : 

Say  rather  that  my  morn  has  just  begun, — 
I  greet  the  dawn  and  not  a  setting  sun, 
When  all  is  done. 

THE  POET  AND  THE  BABY 

This  dainty  bit  of  verse  reflects  the  poet's 
great  love  for  children.  What  the  inspira- 
tion of  that  particular  poem  may  have  been, 
it  may  have  referred  to  almost  any  of  his 
child  friendships.  One  of  these  was  espe- 
cially beautiful.  A  little  baby  boy  of  three, 
with  snow-white  skin  and  golden  curls, 
loved  Dunbar  devotedly,  and  the  people 
who  lived  near  the  poet  in  Dayton,  often 
speak  of  how  on  bright  days  Mr.  Dunbar 
would  sit  on  the  front  steps  of  his  home 
with  little  David  Herr  by  his  side.  David 
was  only  a  baby,  but  he  loved  "  Mr.  Paul " 
with  an  all-absorbing  passion  and  always 
sat  as  close  as  he  could  with  one  small  arm 
about  the  poet's  waist.  The  sight  was  one 
never  to  be  forgotten — the  black  man  and 
the  white  poet,  sitting  for  hours  side  by 
side  dumb  in  their  mutual  admiration. 

When  Mr.  Dunbar  lay  dead,  little  David, 
only  half  realizing  the  great  change  that 
had  come  to  his  friend,  came  as  usual  with 
a  flower  (he  always  brought  a  beautiful 
flower  to  the  poet),  which  strangely  enough, 


was  a  spotless  white  lily.  A  gentleman 
who  knew  of  the  friendship  existing  be- 
tween the  baby  and  the  dead  man,  carried 
David  into  the  chamber  of  Death. 

"  I  want  to  div  him  my  f 'ower,"  said 
the  little  fellow,  and  the  man  stooped  low 
until  the  dimpled  fingers  placed  the  white 
lily  in  the  poet's  hand. 

How's  a  man  to  write  a  sonnet,  can  you 

tell,— 
How's  he  going  to  weave  the  dim,  poetic 

spell,  — 

When  a-toddling  on  the  floor 
Is  the  muse  he  must  adore, 
And  this  muse  he  loves,  not  wisely,  but 
too  well  ? 

Now,  to  write  a  sonnet,  every  one  allows, 
One  must  always  be  as  quiet  as  a  mouse ; 

But  to  write  one  seems  to  me 

Quite  superfluous  to  be, 
When  you've  got  a  little  sonnet  in   the 
house. 

Just  a  dainty  little  poem,  true  and  fine, 
That  is  full  of  love  and  life  in  every  line, 

Earnest,  delicate,  and  sweet, 

Altogether  so  complete 
That  I  wonder  what's  the  use  of  writing 
mine. 


DISTINCTION 

"  I  am  but  clay,"  the  sinner  plead, 
Who  fed  each  vain  desire. 

"  Not  only  clay,"  another  said, 

"  But  worse,  for  thou  art  mire." 


THE  SUM 

A  little  dreaming  by  the  way, 
A  little  toiling  day  by  day ; 
A  little  pain,  a  little  strife, 
A  little  joy,— and  that  is  life. 

A  little  short-lived  summer's  morn, 
When  joy  seems  all  so  newly  born, 
When  one  day's  sky  is  blue  above. 
And  one  bird  sings, — and  that  is  love. 


218 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


A  little  sickening  of  the  years, 
The  tribute  of  a  few  hot  tears, 
Two  folded  hands,  the  failing  breath, 
And  peace  at  last, — and  that  is  death. 

Just  dreaming,  loving,  dying  so, 

The  actors  in  the  drama  go  — 

A  flitting  picture  on  a  wall, 

Love,  Death,  the  themes ;  but  is  that  all  ? 


SONNET 

ON     AN    OLD   BOOK   WITH   UNCUT   LEAVES 

Emblem  of  blasted  hope  and  lost  desire, 
No  finger  ever  traced  thy  yellow  page 
Save  Time's.     Thou  hast  not  wrought 

to  noble  rage 
The    hearts    thou   wouldst    have    stirred. 

Not  any  fire 

Save  sad  flames  set  to  light  a  funeral  pyre 
Dost  thou  suggest.     Nay, — impotent  in 

age, 
Unsought,  thou  holdst  a   corner  of  the 

stage 
And  ceasest  even  dumbly  to  aspire. 

How  different  was  the  thought  of  him  that 

writ. 
What  promised  he  to  love  of  ease  and 

wealth, 
When  men  should  read  and  kindle  at  his 

wit. 
But  here  decay  eats  up  the   book   by 

stealth, 

While  it,  like  some  old  maiden,  solemnly, 
Hugs  its  incongruous  virginity  ! 


A  DEATH  SONG 

At  the  time  of  Mr.  Dunbar's  death, 
many  persons  were  of  the  opinion  that 
this  poem  was  of  very  recent  date.  The 
truth  is  that  it  was  written  as  far  back  as 
1898,  while  Mr.  Dunbar  was  in  Washing- 
ton, D.  C.,  and  appeared  in  the  Con- 
gregationalist  in  September  or  October  of 
that  year.  These  stanzas  were  printed  in 
almost  every  newspaper  in  the  country 
when  the  poet  passed  away,  and  the  re- 
quest embodied  in  the  lines  was  followed, 


as  nearly  as  possible,  in  the  selection  of  a 
burial  site. 

Lay  me  down  beneaf   de   willers    in  de 

grass, 
Whah   de  branch'll  go  a-singin'   as    it 

pass. 

An'  w'en  I's  a-layin'  low, 
I  kin  hyeah  it  as  it  go 
Singin',  "  Sleep,  my  honey,  tek  yo'  res'  at 
las'." 

Lay  me  nigh  to  whah  hit  meks  a  little 

pool, 
An'    de   watah    Stan's   so  quiet   lak   an' 

cool, 

Whah  de  little  birds  in  spring, 
Ust  to  come  an'  drink  an'  sing, 
An'    de    chillen    waded   on    dey    way    to 
school. 

Let  me  settle  w'en  my  shouldahs  draps 

dey  load 
Nigh   enough  to  hyeah  de  noises  in  de 

road  ; 

Fu'  I  t'ink  de  las'  long  res' 
Gwine  to  soothe  my  sperrit  bes' 
Ef    I's   layin'   'mong   de  t'ings  I's  allus 
knowed. 


CHRISMUS  IS  A-COMIN' 

Bones  a-gittin*  achy, 
Back  a-feelin'  col', 
Han's  a-growin'  shaky, 
Jes'  lak  I  was  ol'. 
Pros'  erpon  de  meddah 
Lookin'  mighty  white ; 
Snowdraps  lak  a  feddah 
Slippin'  down  at  night. 
Jes'  keep  t'ings  a-hummin' 
Spite  o'  fros'  an'  showahs, 
Chrismus  is  a-comin* 
An'  all  de  week  is  ouahs. 

Little  mas'  a-axin', 
"  Who  is  Santy  Claus  1  " 
Meks  it  kin'  o'  taxin' 
Not  to  brek  de  laws. 
Chilian's  pow'ful  tryin' 
To  a  pusson's  grace 
We'n  dey  go  a  pryin' 
Right  on  th'oo  you'  face 


in 


BENEAF  DE  WILLERS 


CHRIS'MUS  is  A-COMIN' 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


221 


Down  ermong  yo'  feelin's  ; 
Jes'  'pears  lak  dat  you 
Got  to  change  you'  dealin's 
So's  to  tell  'em  true. 


An'  my  pickaninny  — 
Dreamin'  in  his  sleep  ! 
Come  hyeah,  Mammy  Jinny, 
Come  an'  tek  a  peep. 
Ol'  Mas'  Bob  an'  Missis 
In  dey  house  up  daih 
Got  no  chile  lak  dis  is, 
D'  ain't  none  anywhaih. 
Sleep,  my  little  lammy. 
Sleep,  you  little  limb, 
He  do'  know  whut  mammy 
Done  saved  up  fu'  him. 

Dey'll  be  banjo  pickin', 
Dancin'  all  night  thoo. 
Dey'll  be  lots  o'  chicken, 
Plenty  tukky,  too. 
Drams  to  wet  yo'  whistles 
So's  to  drive  out  chills. 
Whut  I  keer  fu'  drizzles 
Tallin'  on  de  hills  ? 
Jes'  keep  t'ings  a-hummin' 
Spite  o'  col'  an'  showahs, 
Chrismus  day's  a-comin', 
An'  all  de  week  is  ouahs. 


ON  THE  SEAWALL 

I  sit  upon  the  old  sea  wall, 

And  watch  the  shimmering  sea, 

Where    soft  and   white   the   moonbeams 

fall, 
Till,  in  a  fantasy, 

Some  pure  white  maiden's  funeral  pall 
The  strange  light  seems  to  me. 


The  waters  break  upon  the  shore 

And  shiver  at  my  feet, 
While  I  dream  old  dreams  o'er  and  o'er, 

And  dim  old  scenes  repeat ; 
Tho'  all  have  dreamed  the  same  before, 

They  still  seem  new  and  sweet. 

13 


The  waves  still  sing  the  same  old  song 

That  knew  an  elder  time  ; 
The  breakers'  beat  is  not  more  strong, 

Their  music  more  sublime ; 
And  poets  thro'  the  ages  long 

Have  set  these  notes  to  rhyme. 

But  this  shall  not  deter  my  lyre, 
Nor  check  my  simple  strain  ; 

If  I  have  not  the  old-time  fire, 
I  know  the  ancient  pain  : 

The  hurt  of  unfulfilled  desire, — 
The  ember  quenched  by  rain. 

I  know  the  softly  shining  sea 

That  rolls  this  gentle  swell 
Has  snarled  and  licked  its  tongues  at  me 

And  bared  its  fangs  as  well ; 
That  'neath  its  smile  so  heavenly, 

There  lurks  the  scowl  of  hell ! 

But  what  of  that  ?     I  strike  my  string 
(For  songs  in  youth  are  sweet)  ; 

I'll  wait  and  hear  the  waters  bring 
Their  loud  resounding  beat ; 

Then,  in  her  own  bold  numbers  sing 
The  Ocean's  dear  deceit ! 


TO  A  LADY  PLAYING  THE  HARP 

Thy  tones  are  silver  melted  into  sound, 

And  as  I  dream 
I  see  no  walls  around, 

But  seem  to  hear 

A  gondolier 

Sing  sweetly  down  some  slow  Venetian 
stream. 

Italian  skies — that  I  have  never  seen  — 

I  see  above. 
(Ah,  play  again,  my  queen  ; 

Thy  fingers  white 

Fly  swift  and  light 

And  weave  for  me  the  golden  mesh  of 
love.) 

Oh,  thou  dusk  sorceress  of  the  dusky  eyes 

And  soft  dark  hair, 
Tis  thou  that  mak'st  my  skies 

So  swift  to  change 

To  far  and  strange  ; 

But  far  and  strange,  thou  still  dost  make 
them  fair. 


222 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


Now  thou  dost  sing,  and  I  am  lost  in  thee 

As  one  who  drowns 
In  floods  of  melody. 

Still  in  thy  art 

Give  me  this  part, 

Till     perfect    love,    the    love    of   loving 
crowns. 


CONFESSIONAL 

Search  thou  my  heart ; 

If  there  be  guile, 
It  shall  depart 

Before  thy  smile. 

Search  thou  my  soul ; 

Be  there  deceit, 
'Twill  vanish  whole 

Before  thee,  sweet. 

Upon  my  mind 

Turn  thy  pure  lens ; 
Naught  shalt  thou  find 

Thou  canst  not  cleanse. 

If  I  should  pray, 

I  scarcely  know 
In  just  what  way 

My  prayers  would  go. 

So  strong  in  me 
I  feel  love's  leaven, 

I'd  bow  to  thee 

As  soon  as  Heaven  1 


MISAPPREHENSION 

Out  of  my  heart,  one  day,  I  wrote  a  song, 

With  my  heart's  blood  imbued, 
Instinct  with  passion,  tremulously  strong, 
With  grief  subdued ; 
Breathing  a.  fortitude 

Pain-bought. 
And  one  who  claimed  much  love  for  what 

I  wrought, 
Read  and  considered  it, 

And  spoke : 
"  Ay,  brother, — 'tis  well  writ, 

But  where's  the  joke  ?  " 


PROMETHEUS 

Prometheus  stole  from  Heaven  the  sacred 

fire 
And  swept  to  earth  with  it  o'er  land  and 

sea. 

He  lit  the  vestal  flames  of  poesy, 
Content,  for  this,  to  brave  celestial  ire. 

Wroth  were  the  gods,  and  with  eternal 

hate 
Pursued  the  fearless  one  who  ravished 

Heaven 
That  earth  might  hold  in  fee  the  perfect 

leaven 
To  lift  men's  souls  above  their  low  estate. 

But  judge  you  now,  when  poets  wield  the 

pen, 
Think  you  not  well  the  wrong  has  been 

repaired  ? 
'Twas  all  in  vain  that   ill  Prometheus 

fared : 

The   fire  has   been   returned  to   Heaven 
again ! 

We  have  no  singers  like  the  ones  whose 

note 
Gave  challenge  to  the  noblest  warbler's 

song. 
We   have  no  voice    so   mellow,  sweet, 

and  strong 

As  that  which  broke  from  Shelley's  golden 
throat. 

The  measure  of  our  songs  is  our  desires  : 
We   tinkle   where   old  poets    used    to 

storm. 
We  lack  their  substance  tho'  we  keep 

their  form : 

We  strum  our  banjo-strings  and  call  them 
lyres. 


LOVE'S  PHASES 

Love  hath  the  wings  of  the  butterfly, 

Oh,  clasp  him  but  gently, 
Pausing  and  dipping  and  fluttering  by 

Inconsequently. 

Stir  not  his  poise  with  the  breath  of  a  sigh  ; 
Love  hath  the  wings  of  the  butterfly. 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


223 


Love  hath  the  wings  of  the  eagle  bold, 

Cling  to  him  strongly  — 
What  if  the  look  of  the  world  be  cold, 

And  life  go  wrongly? 
Rest   on  his   pinions,    for   broad  is  their 

fold; 
Love  hath  the  wings  of  the  eagle  bold. 


Love  hath  the  voice  of  the  nightingale, 

Hearken  his  trilling — 
List  to  his  song  when  the  moonlight  is 
pale,— 

Passionate,  thrilling. 
Cherish  the  lay,  ere  the  lilt  of  it  fail ; 
Love  hath  the  voice  of  the  nightingale. 


Love    hath    the   voice   of    the    storm   at 

night, 

Wildly  defiant. 
Hear  him  and  yield  up  your  soul  to  his 

might, 

Tenderly  pliant. 
None    shall    regret    him    who   heed   him 

aright ; 
Love  hath  the  voice  of  the  storm  at  night. 


FOR  THE  MAN  WHO  FAILS 

The  world  is  a  snob,  and  the  man  who 

wins 

Is  the  chap  for  its  money's  worth : 
And  the  lust  for  success  causes  half  of  the 

sins 

That  are  cursing  this  brave  old  earth. 
For  it's  fine  to  go  up,  and  the  world's  ap- 

plause 

Is  sweet  to  the  mortal  ear ; 
But  the  man  who  fails  in  a  noble  cause 
Is  a  hero  that's  no  less  dear. 


'Tis  true  enough  that  the  laurel  crown 

Twines  but  for  the  victor's  brow ; 
For  many  a  hero  has  lain  him  down 

With  naught  but  the  cypress  bough. 
There  are  gallant  men  in  the  losing  fight, 

And  as  gallant  deeds  are  done 
As  ever  graced  the  captured  height 

Or  the  battle  grandly  won. 


We   sit  at  life's   board   with   our   nerves 

highstrung, 

And  we  play  for  the  stake  of  Fame, 
And  our  odes  are  sung  and  our  banners 

hung 

For  the  man  who  wins  the  game. 
But  I  have  a  song  of  another  kind 

Than  breathes  in   these  fame-wrought 

gales,— 

An  ode  to  the  noble  heart  and  mind 
Of  the  gallant  man  who  fails ! 

The  man  who  is  strong  to  fight  his  fight, 

And  whose  will  no  front  can  daunt, 
If  the   truth  be  truth  and   the   right   be 
right, 

Is  the  man  that  the  ages  want. 
Tho'  he  fail  and  die  in  grim  defeat, 

Yet  he  has  not  fled  the  strife, 
And  the  house  of  Earth  will  seem  more 
sweet 

For  the  perfume  of  his  life. 


HARRIET  BEECHER  STOWE 

She  told  the  story,  and  the  whole  world 

wept 
At   wrongs   and    cruelties    it   had   not 

known 
But   for    this    fearless    woman's    voice 

alone. 
She  spoke  to  consciences  that  long  had 

slept : 
Her   message,  Freedom's    clear   reveille, 

swept 
From    heedless    hovel    to    complacent 

throne. 
Command   and   prophecy  were    in  the 

tone 

And  from  its  sheath  the  sword  of  jus- 
tice leapt. 

Around  two  peoples  swelled  a  fiery  wave, 
But  both  came  forth  transfigured  from 

the  flame. 
Blest  be  the  hand  that  dared  be  strong  to 

save, 
And  blest  be  she  who  in  our  weakness 

came  — 
Prophet  and  priestess  I     At  one  stroke 

she  gave 
A  race  to  freedom  and  herself  to  fame. 


224 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


VAGRANTS 
Long  time  ago,  we  two  set  out, 

My  soul  and  I. 

I  know  not  why, 
For  all  our  way  was  dim  with  doubt. 

I  know  not  where 

We  two  may  fare  : 

Though  still  with  every  changing  weather, 
We  wander,  groping  on  together. 

We  do  not  love,  we  are  not  friends, 

My  soul  and  I. 

He  lives  a  lie  ; 
Untruth  lines  every  way  he  wends. 

A  scoffer  he 

Who  jeers  at  me  : 

And  so,  my  comrade  and  my  brother, 
We  wander  on  and  hate  each  other. 

Ay,  there  be  taverns  and  to  spare, 

Beside  the  road ; 

But  some  strange  goad 
Lets  me  not  stop  to  taste  their  fare. 

Knew  I  the  goal 

Towards  which  my  soul 
And  I  made  way,  hope  made  life  fragrant : 
But  no.     We  wander,  aimless,  vagrant ! 

A  WINTER'S  DAY 
Across    the  hills   and   down  the  narrow 

ways, 
And  up  the  valley  where  the  free  winds 

sweep, 

The  earth  is  folded  in  an  ermined  sleep 
That  mocks  the  melting  mirth  of  myriad 

Mays. 
Departed    her    disheartening    duns    and 

grays, 
And  all  her    crusty   black   is  covered 

deep. 
Dark  streams  are   locked   in  Winter's 

donjon-keep, 

And  made  to  shine  with  keen,  unwonted 
rays. 

O  icy  mantle,  and  deceitful  snow  ! 

What  world-old  liars  in  your  hearts  ye 

are  ! 
Are  there  not  still  the  darkened  seam 

and  scar 

Beneath  the  brightness  that  you  fain  would 
show  ? 


Come  from  the  cover  with  thy   blot  and 

blur, 
O  reeking  Earth,  thou  whited  sepulchre ! 


MY  LITTLE  MARCH  GIRL 

Come  to  the  pane,  draw  the  curtain  apart, 
There  she  is  passing,  the  girl  of  my  heart ; 
See  where  she  walks  like  a  queen  in  the 

street, 

Weather-defying,  calm,  placid  and  sweet. 
Tripping  along  with  impetuous  grace, 
Joy  of  her  life  beaming  out  of  her  face, 
Tresses  all  truant-like,  curl  upon  curl, 
Wind-blown   and   rosy,   my  little   March 

girl. 

Hint  of  the  violet's  delicate  bloom, 
Hint  of  the  rose's  pervading  perfume  ! 
How  can  the  wind  help  from  kissing  her 

face, — 

Wrapping  her  round  in  his  stormy  em- 
brace ? 

But  still  serenely  she  laughs  at  his  rout, 
She  is  the  victor  who  wins  in  the  bout. 
So  may  life's  passions  about  her  soul  swirl, 
Leaving  it  placid, — my  little  March  girl. 

What  self-possession  looks  out  of  her  eyes ! 
What  are  the  wild  winds,  and  what  are 

the  skies, 
Frowning  and  glooming  when,  brimming 

with  life, 

Cometh  the  little  maid  ripe  for  the  strife  ? 
Ah !  Wind,  and  bah  !  Wind,  what  might 

have  you  now  ? 

What  can  you  do  with  that  innocent  brow  ? 
Blow,  Wind,  and  grow,  Wind,  and  eddy 

and  swirl, 
But   bring   her   to   me,  Wind? — my  little 

March  girl. 


REMEMBERED 

She  sang,  and  I  listened  the  whole  song 

thro'. 

(It  was  sweet,  so  sweet,  the  singing.) 
The  stars  were  out  and  the  moon  it  grew 
From  a  wee  soft  glimmer  way  out  in  the 

blue 
To  a  bird  thro'  the  heavens  winging. 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


225 


She  sang,  and  the  song  trembled  down  to 

my  breast, — 

(It  was  sweet,  so  sweet  the  singing.) 
As  a  dove  just  out  of  its  fledgling  nest, 
And,  putting  its  wings  to  the  first  sweet 

test, 
Flutters  homeward  so  wearily  winging. 

She  sang  and  I  said  to  my  heart,  "  That 

song, 

That  was  sweet,  so  sweet  i'  the  singing, 
Shall  live  with  us  and  inspire  us  long, 
And  thou,  my  heart,  shalt  be  brave  and 

strong 
For  the  sake  of  those  words  a-winging. 

The  woman  died  and  the  song  was  still. 

(It  was  sweet,  so  sweet,  the  singing.) 
But  ever  I  hear  the  same  low  trill, 
Of  the  song  that  shakes  my  heart  with  a 
thrill, 

And  goes  forever  winging. 


LOVE  DESPOILED 

As  lone  I  sat  one  summer's  day, 

With  mien  dejected,  Love  came  by ; 

His  face  distraught,  his  locks  astray, 
So  slow  his  gait,  so  sad  his  eye, 
I  hailed  him  with  a  pitying  cry : 

"  Pray,  Love,  what  has  disturbed  thee 
so?" 

Said  I,  amazed.  "  Thou  seem'st  bereft ; 
And  see  thy  quiver  hanging  low, — 

What,  not  a  single  arrow  left  ? 

Pray,  who  is  guilty  of  this  theft  ?  " 

Poor  Love  looked  in  my  face  and  cried : 
"  No  thief  were  ever  yet  so  bold 

To  rob  my  quiver  at  my  side. 

But  Time,  who  rules,  gave  ear  to  Gold, 
And  all  my  goodly  shafts  are  sold." 


THE   LAPSE 

This  poem  must  be  done  to-day  ; 

Then,  I'll  e'en  to  it. 
I  must  not  dream  my  time  away, — 

I'm  sure  to  rue  it. 


The  day  is  rather  bright,  I  know 

The  Muse  will  pardon 
My  half-defection,  if  I  go 

Into  the  garden. 
It  must  be  better  working  there, — 

I'm  sure  it's  sweeter ; 
And  something  in  the  balmy  air 

May  clear  my  metre. 

[/»  the  Garden.] 

Ah  this  is  noble,  what  a  sky  ! 

What  breezes  blowing! 
The  very  clouds,  I  know  not  why, 

Call  one  to  rowing. 
The  stream  will  be  a  paradise 

To-day,  I'll  warrant. 
I  know  the  tide  that's  on  the  rise 

Will  seem  a  torrent; 
I  know  just  how  the  leafy  boughs 

Are  all  a-quiver; 
I  know  how  many  skiffs  and  scows 

Are  on  the  river. 
I  think  I'll  just  go  out  awhile 

Before  I  write  it; 
When  Nature  shows  us  such  a  smile, 

We  shouldn't  slight  it. 
For  Nature  always  makes  desire 

By  giving  pleasure ; 
And  so  'twill  help  me  put  more  fire 

Into  my  measure. 

[  On  the  River. \ 

The  river's  fine,  I'm  glad  I  came, 

That  poem's  teasing; 
But  health  is  better  far  than  fame, 

Though  cheques  are  pleasing. 
I  don't  know  what  I  did  it  for, — 

This  air's  a  poppy. 
I'm  sorry  for  my  editor, — 

He  '11  get  no  copy  ! 


THE  WARRIOR'S  PRAYER 

Long  since,  in  sore  distress,  I  heard  one 

pray, 
"  Lord,  who  prevailest  with   resistless 

might, 

Ever  from  war  and  strife  keep  me  away, 
My  battles  fight !  " 


226 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


I  know  not  if  I  play  the  Pharisee, 

And  if  my  brother  after  all  be  right ; 
But  mine  shall  be  the  warrior's  plea  to 

thee  — 
Strength  for  the  fight. 

I  do  not  ask  that  thou  shalt  front  the  fray, 
And  drive  the  warring  foeman  from  my 

sight ; 

I  only  ask,  O  Lord,  by  night,  by  day, 
Strength  for  the  fight ! 

When   foes   upon   me   press,  let   me  not 

quail 

Nor  think  to  turn  me  into  coward  flight. 
I  only  ask,  to  make  mine  arms  prevail, 
Strength  for  the  fight ! 

Still  let  mine  eyes  look  ever  on  the  foe, 
Still  let  mine  armor  case  me  strong  and 

bright ; 
And  grant  me,  as  I  deal  each  righteous 

blow, 
Strength  for  the  fight ! 

And  when,  at  eventide,  the  fray  is  done, 
My  soul  to  Death's  bedchamber  do  thou 

light, 

And  give  me,  be  the  field  or  lost  or  won, 
Rest  from  the  fight ! 

FAREWELL  TO  ARCADY 

With  sombre  mien,  the  Evening  gray 
Comes  nagging  at  the  heels  of  Day, 
And  driven  faster  and  still  faster 
Before  the  dusky-mantled  Master, 
The  light  fades  from  her  fearful  eyes, 
She  hastens,  stumbles,  falls,  and  dies. 

Beside  me  Amaryllis  weeps  ; 
The  swelling  tears  obscure  the  deeps 
Of  her  dark  eyes,  as,  mistily, 
The  rushing  rain  conceals  the  sea. 
Here,  lay  my  tuneless  reed  away, — 
I  have  no  heart  to  tempt  a  lay. 

I  scent  the  perfume  of  the  rose 
Which  by  my  crystal  fountain  grows. 
In  this  sad  time,  are  roses  blowing  ? 
And  thou,  my  fountain,  art  thou  flowing, 
While  I  who  watched  thy  waters  spring 


Am  all  too  sad  to  smile  or  sing  ? 
Nay,  give  me  back  my  pipe  again, 
It  yet  shall  breathe  this  single  strain : 
Farewell  to  Arcady ! 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  BANJO 

In  a  small  and  lonely  cabin  out  of  noisy 

traffic's  way, 
Sat  an  old  man,  bent  and  feeble,  dusk  of 

face,  and  hair  of  gray, 
And  beside  him  on  the  table,  battered, 

old,  and  worn  as  he, 
Lay  a  banjo,  droning  forth  this  reminiscent 

melody  : 

"  Night  is  closing  in  upon  us,  friend  of 

mine,  but  don't  be  sad ; 
Let  us  think  of  all  the  pleasures  and  the 

joys  that  we  have  had. 
Let  us  keep  a  merry  visage,  and  be  happy 

till  the  last, 
Let  the  future  still  be  sweetened  with  the 

honey  of  the  past. 

"  For  I  speak  to  you  of  summer  nights 

upon  the  yellow  sand, 
When  the  Southern  moon  was  sailing  high 

and  silvering  all  the  land  ; 
And  if  love  tales  were  not  sacred,  there's 

a  tale  that  I  could  tell 
Of  your  many  nightly  wanderings  with  a 

dusk  and  lovely  belle. 

"  And  I  Speak  to  you  of  care-free  songs 
when  labor's  hour  was  o'er, 

And  a  woman  waiting  for  your  step  out- 
side the  cabin  door, 

And  of  something  roly-poly  that  you  took 
upon  your  lap, 

While  you  listened  for  the  stumbling, 
hesitating  words,  '  Pap,  pap.' 

"  I  could  tell  you  of  a  'possum  hunt  across 

the  wooded  grounds, 
I  could  call  to  mind  the  sweetness  of  the 

baying  of  the  hounds, 
You  could  lift  me  up  and  smelling  of  the 

timber  that's  in  me, 
Build  again  a  whole  green  forest  with  the 

mem'ry  of  a  tree. 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


227 


«  So  the  future  cannot  hurt  us  while  we 

keep  the  past  in  mind, 
What  care  I  for  trembling  fingers, — what 

care  you  that  you  are  blind  ? 
Time  may  leave  us  poor  and  stranded, 

circumstance  may  make  us  bend ; 
But  they'll  only  find  us  mellower,  won't 

they,  comrade  ? — in  the  end." 


THE  STIRRUP  CUP 

Come,  drink  a  stirrup  cup  with  me, 

Before  we  close  our  rouse. 
You're  all  aglow  with  wine,  I  know  : 

The  master  of  the  house, 

Unmindful  of  our  revelry, 

Has  drowned  the  carking  devil  care, 

And  slumbers  in  his  chair. 

Come,  drink  a  cup  before  we  start ; 
We've  far  to  ride  to-night. 

And  Death  may  take  the  race  we  make, 
And  check  our  gallant  flight : 
But  even  he  must  play  his  part, 
And  tho'  the  look  he  wears  be  grim, 
We'll  drink  a  toast  to  him ! 

For  Death, — a  swift  old  chap  is  he, 
And  swift  the  steed  he  rides. 

He  needs  no  chart  o'er  main  or  mart, 
For  no  direction  bides, 
So,  come  a  final  cup  with  me, 
And  let  the  soldiers'  chorus  swell, — 
To  hell  with  care,  to  hell ! 


A  CHOICE 

They  please  me  not — these  solemn  songs 
That  hint  of  sermons  covered  up. 

Tis     true    the    world    should    heed    its 

wrongs, 
But  in  a  poem  let  me  sup, 

Not  simples  brewed  to  cure  or  ease 

Humanity's  confessed  disease, 

But  the  spirit-wine  of  a  singing  line, 
Or  a  dew-drop  in  a  honey  cup  ! 


HUMOR  AND  DIALECT 


THEN  AND  NOW 

THEN 

He  loved  her,  and  through  many  years, 
Had  paid  his  fair  devoted  court, 

Until  she  wearied,  and  with  sneers 
Turned  all  his  ardent  love  to  sport. 

That  night  with  n  his  chamber  lone, 
He  long  sat  writing  by  his  bed 

A  note  in  which  his  heart  made  moan 
For  love ;  the  morning  found  him  dead, 

NOW 

Like  him,  a  man  of  later  day 
Was  jilted  by  the  maid  he  sought, 

And  from  her  presence  turned  away, 
Consumed  by  burning,  bitter  thought. 

He  sought  his  room  to  write — a  curse 
Like  him  before  and  die,  I  we«n. 

Ah,  no,  he  put  his  woes  in  verse. 
And  sold  them  to  a  magazine. 

AT  CHESHIRE  CHEESE 

When  first  of  wise  old  Johnson  taugnt, 
My  youthful  mind  its  homage  brought, 
And  made  the  pond'rous,  crusty  sage 
The  object  of  a  noble  rage. 

Nor  did  I  think  (How  dense  we  are !) 
That  any  day,  however  far, 
Would  find  me  holding,  unrepelled, 
The  place  that  Doctor  Johnson  held  ! 

But  change  has  come  and  time  has  moved, 
And  now,  applauded,  unreproved, 
I  hold,  with  pardonable  pride, 
The  place  that  Johnson  occupied. 

Conceit !     Presumption  !     What  is  this  ? 
You  surely  read  my  words  amiss  ! 
Like  Johnson  I, — a  man  of  mind ! 
How  could  you  ever  be  so  blind  ? 

No.     At  the  ancient  "  Cheshire  Cheese," 
Blown  hither  by  some  vagrant  breeze, 
To  dignify  my  shallow  wit, 
In  Doctor  Johnson's  seat  I  sit ! 


228 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


MY  CORN-COB  PIPE 

Men  may  sing  of  their  Havanas,  elevating 
to  the  stars 

The  real  or  fancied  virtues  of  their  foreign- 
made  cigars ; 

But  I  worship  Nicotina  at  a  different  sort 
of  shrine, 

And  she  sits  enthroned  in  glory  in  this 
corn-cob  pipe  of  mine. 

It's  as  fragrant  as  the  meadows  when  the 
clover  is  in  bloom  ; 

It's  as  dainty  as  the  essence  of  the  dainti- 
est perfume  ; 

It's  as  sweet  as  are  the  orchards  when  the 
fruit  is  hanging  ripe, 

With  the  sun's  warm  kiss  upon  them — is 
this  corn-cob  pipe. 

Thro'  the  smoke  about  it  clinging,  I  de: 

light  its  form  to  trace, 
Like  an  oriental  beauty  with  a  veil  upon 

her  face; 
And    my  room  is  dim  with  vapor  as  a 

church  when  censers  sway, 
As  I  clasp  it  to  my  bosom — in  a  figurative 

way. 

It  consoles  me  in  misfortune  and  it  cheers 
me  in  distress, 

And  it  proves  a  warm  partaker  of  my 
pleasures  in  success ; 

So  I  hail  it  as  a  symbol,  friendship's  true 
and  worthy  type, 

And  I  press  my  lips  devoutly  to  my  corn- 
cob pipe. 


IN  AUGUST 

When  August  days  are  hot  an'  dry, 
When  burning  copper  is  the  sky, 
I'd  rather  fish  than  feast  or  fly 
In  airy  realms  serene  and  high. 

I'd  take  a  suit  not  made  for  looks, 

Some  easily  digested  books, 

Some  flies,  some  lines,  some  bait,  some 

hooks, 
Then  would  I  seek  the  bays  and  brooks. 


I  would  eschew  mine  every  task, 
In  Nature's  smiles  my  soul  should  bask, 
And  I  methinks  no  more  could  ask, 
Except— perhaps-— one  little  flask. 

In  case  of  accident,  you  know, 
Or  should  the  wind  come  on  to  blow, 
Or  I  be  chilled  or  capsized,  so, 
A  flask  would  be  the  only  go. 

Then  could  I  spend  a  happy  time, — 

A  bit  of  sport,  a  bit  of  rhyme 

(A  bit  of  lemon,  or  of  lime, 

To  make  my  bottle's  contents  prime). 

When  August  days  are  hot  an'  dry, 
I  won't  sit  by  an'  sigh  or  die, 
I'll  get  my  bottle  (on  the  sly) 
And  go  ahead,  and  fish,  and  lie  ! 

THE  DISTURBER 

Oh,  what  shall  I  do  ?  I  am  wholly  up- 
set; 

I  am  sure  I'll  be  jailed  for  a  lunatic  yet. 

I'll  be  out  of  a  job — it's  the  thing  to  ex- 
pect 

When  I'm  letting  my  duty  go  by  with 
neglect. 

You  may  judge  the  extent  and  degree  of 
my  plight 

When  I'm  thinking  all  day  and  a-dream- 
ing  all  night, 

And  a-trying  my  hand  at  a  rhyme  on  the 
sly, 

All  on  account  of  a  sparkling  eye. 

There  are  those  who  say  men  should  be 

strong,  well-a-day ! 
But  what  constitutes  strength   in  a  man  ? 

Who  shall  say  ? 
I   am  strong  as  the  most  when  it  comes  to 

the  arm. 

I   have    aye  held    my  own  on  the   play- 
ground or  farm. 
And  when  I've  been  tempted,  I  haven't 

been  weak ; 
But  now — why,  I  tremble  to  hear  a  maid 

speak. 
I  used  to  be  bold,  but  now  I've  grown 

shy, 
And  all  on  account  of  a  sparkling  eye. 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


229 


There  once  was  a  time  when  my  heart  was 

devout, 

But  now  my  religion  is  open  to  doubt. 
When    parson  is  earnestly  preaching  of 

grace. 

My  fancy  is  busy  with  drawing  a  face, 
Thro'  the  back  of  a   bonnet  most  piously 

plain  ; 

"  I  draw  it,  redraw  it,  and  draw;  it  again." 
While  the  songs  and  the  sermon  unheeded 

go  by,— 
All  on  account  of  a  sparkling  eye. 

Oh,  dear  little  conjurer,  give  o'er  your 
wiles, 

It  is  easy  for  you,  you're  all  blushes  and 
smiles ; 

But,  love  of  my  heart,  I  am  sorely  per- 
plexed ; 

I  am  smiling  one  minute  and  sighing  the 
next; 

And  if  it  goes  on,  I'll  drop  hackle  and 
flail, 

And  go  to  the  parson  and  tell  him  my  tale. 

I  warrant  he'll  find  me  a  cure  for  the  sigh 

That  you're  aye  bringing  forth  with  the 
glance  of  your  eye. 

EXPECTATION 

You'll  be  wonderin*  whut's  de  reason 

I's  a  grinnin'  all  de  time, 
An'  I  guess  you  t'ink  my  sperits 

Mus'  be  feelin'  mighty  prime. 
Well,  I  'fess  up,  I  is  tickled 

As  a  puppy  at  his  paws. 
But  you  needn't  think  I's  crazy, 

I  ain'  lamn'  'dout  a  cause. 

You's  a  wonderin'  too,  I  reckon, 

Why  I  doesn't  seem  to  eat, 
An'  I  notice  you  a  lookin' 

Lak  you  felt  completely  beat 
When  I  'fuse  to  tek  de  bacon, 

An'  don'  settle  on  de  ham. 
Don'  you  feel  no  feah  erbout  me, 

Jes'  keep  eatin',  an'  be  ca'm. 

Fu'  I's  waitin'  an'  I's  watchin' 

'Bout  a  little  t'ing  I  see  — 
D'  othah  night  I's  out  a  walkin' 

An'  I  passed  a  'simmon  tree. 


Now  I's  whettin'  up  my  hongry, 

An'  I's  lamn'  fit  to  kill, 
Fu'  de  fros'  done  turned  de  'simmons, 

An'  de  possum's  eat  his  fill. 

He  done  go'ged  hisse'f  owdacious, 

An'  he  stayin'  by  de  tree  ! 
Don'  you  know,  ol'  Mistah  Possum 

Dat  you  gittin'  fat  fu'  me  ? 
'Tain't  no  use  to  try  to  'spute  it, 

'Case  I  knows  you's  gittin'  sweet 
Wif  dat  'simmon  flavoh  thoo  you, 

So  I's  waitin'  fu'  yo'  meat. 

An'  some  ebenin'  me  an'  Towsah 

Gwine  to  come  an'  mek  a  call, 
We  jes'  drap  in  onexpected 

Fu'  to  shek  yo'  han',  dat's  all. 
Oh,  I  knows  dat  you'll  be  tickled, 

Seem  lak  I  kin  see  you  smile, 
So  pu'haps  I  mought  pu'suade  you 

Fu'  to  visit  us  a  while. 


LOVER'S  LANE 

Summah  night  an'  sighin'  breeze, 

'Long  de  lovah's  lane  ; 
Frien'ly,  shadder-mekin'  trees, 

'Long  de  lovah's  lane. 
White  folks'  wo'k  all  done  up  gran'- 
Me  an'  'Mandy  han'-in-han' 
Struttin'  lak  we  owned  de  Ian', 

'Long  de  lovah's  lane. 

Owl  a-settin'  'side  de  road, 

'Long  de  lovah's  lane, 
Lookin'  at  us  lak  he  knowed 

Dis  uz  lovah's  lane. 
Go  on,  hoot  yo'  mou'nful  tune, 
You  ain'  nevah  loved  in  June, 
An'  come  hidin'  Pom  de  moon 

Down  in  lovah's  lane. 

Bush  it  ben'  an'  nod  an'  sway, 

Down  in  lovah's  lane, 
Try'n'  to  hyeah  me  whut  I  say 

'Long  de  lovah's  lane. 
But  I  whispahs  low  lak  dis, 
An'  my  'Mandy  smile  huh  bliss  — 
Mistah  Bush  he  shek  his  fis', 

Down  in  lovah's  lane. 


230 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


Whut  I  keer  ef  day  is  long, 

Down  in  lovah's  lane. 
I  kin  allus  sing  a  song 

'Long  de  lovah's  lane. 
An'  de  wo'ds  I  hyeah  an'  say 
Meks  up  fu'  de  weary  day, 
Wen  I's  strollin'  by  de  way, 

Down  in  lovah's  lane. 

An'  dis  fought  will  allus  rise 

Down  in  lovah's  lane  : 
Wondah  whethah  in  de  skies 

Dey's  a  lovah's  lane. 
Ef  dey  ain't  I  tell  you  true, 
'Ligion  do  look  mighty  blue, 
'Cause  I  do'  know  whut  I'd  do 

'Dout  a  lovah's  lane. 

PROTEST 

Who  say  my  hea't  ain't  true  to  you  ? 

Dey  bettah  hetsh  dey  mouf. 
I  knows  I  loves  you  thoo  an'  thoo 

In  watah  time  er  drouf. 
I  wush  dese  people  'd  stop  dey  talkin', 
Don't      mean     no     mo'     dan     chicken's 

squawkin' : 
I  guess  I  knows  which  way  I's  walkin', 

I  knows  de  norf  f  om  souf. 

I  does  not  love  Elizy  Brown, 

I  guess  I  knows  my  min'. 
You  allus  try  to  tek  me  down 

Wid  evaht'ing  you  fin'. 
Ef  dese  hyeah  folks  will  keep  on  fillin* 
Yo'  haid  wid  nonsense,  an'  you's  willin* 
I  bet  some  day  dey'll  be  a  killin' 

Somewhaih  along  de  line. 

O'  cose  I  buys  de  gal  ice-cream, 

Whut  else  I  gwine  to  do  ? 
I  knows  jes'  how  de  t'ing  'u'd  seem 

Ef  I'd  be  sho't  wid  you. 
On  Sunday,  you's  at  chu'ch  a-shoutin', 
Den  all  de  week  you  go  'roun'  poutin* — 
I's  mighty  tiahed  o'  all  dis  doubtin', 

I  tell  you  cause  I's  true. 

HYMN 

O  liT  lamb  out  in  de  col', 
De  Mastah  call  you  to  de  foP, 
O  1'iT  lamb ! 


He  hyeah  you  bleatin'  on  de  hill  ; 
Come  hyeah  an'  keep  yo'  mou'nin'  still, 
O  li'P  lamb ! 

De  Mastah  sen'  de  Shepud  fo'f ; 
He  wandah  souf,  he  wandah  no'f, 

O  li'P  lamb ! 

He  wandah  eas',  he  wandah  wes' ; 
De  win'  a-wrenchin'  at  his  breas', 

O  li'P  lamb ! 

Oh,  tell  de  Shepud  whaih  you  hide ; 
He  want  you  walkin'  by  his  side, 

O  liT  lamb ! 

He  know  you  weak,  he  know  you  so' ; 
But  come,  don'  stay  away  no  mo', 

O  li'P  lamb  1 

An'  af'ah  while  de  lamb  he  hyeah 
De  Shepud's  voice  a-callin'  cleah— - 

Sweet  li'P  lamb  ! 

He  answah  fom  de  brambles  thick, 
"  O  Shepud,  I's  a-comin'  quick  " — 

O  li'P  lamb ! 

THE   REAL  QUESTION 

Folks  is  talkin'  'bout  de  money,  'bout  de 

silvah  an'  de  gold ; 
All  de   time  de  season's  changin'  an'  de 

days  is  gittin'  cold. 
An'  dey 's  wond'rin'  'bout  de  metals,  whethah 

we'll  have  one  er  two, 
While  de  price  o'  coal  is  risin'  an'  dey's  two 

months'  rent  dat's  due. 

Some  folks  says  dat  gold's  de  only  money 

dat  is  wuff  de  name, 
Den  de  othahs  rise  an'  tell  'em  dat  dey 

ought  to  be  ashame, 
An'  dat  silvah  is  de  only  thing  to  save  us 

f 'om  de  powah 
Of  de  gold-bug  ragin'  'roun'  an'  seekin' 

who  he  may  devowah. 

Well,  you  folks  kin  keep  on  shoutin'  wif 

yo'  gold  er  silvah  cry, 
But  I  tell  you  people  hams  is  sceerce  an' 

fowls  is  roostin'  high. 
An'  hit  ain't  de  so't  o'  money  dat  is  pes- 

terin'  my  min', 
But  de  question  I  want  answehed's  how  ta 

get  'at  any  kin' ! 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


231 


JILTED 

Lucy  done  gone  back  on  me, 

Dat's  de  way  wif  life. 
Evaht'ing  was  movin'  free 

T'ought  I  had  my  wife. 
Den  some  dahky  comes  along, 
Sings  my  gal  a  little  song, 
Since  den,  evaht'ing's  gone  wrong, 

Evah  day  dey's  strife. 

Didn't  answeh  me  to-day, 

Wen  I  called  huh  name, 
Would  you  t'ink  she'd  ac'  dat  way 

Wen  I  ain't  to  blame  ? 
Dat's  de  way  dese  women  do, 
Wen  dey  fin's  a  fellow  true, 
Den  dey  'buse  him  thoo  an'  thoo ; 
Well,  hit's  all  de  same. 

Somep'n's  wrong  erbout  my  lung, 

An'  I's  glad  hit's  so. 
Doctah  says  'at  I'll  die  young, 

Well,  I  wants  to  go  ! 
Whut's  de  use  o'  livin'  hyeah, 
Wen  de  gal  you  loves  so  deah, 
Goes  back  on  you  clean  an'  cleah  — 

I  sh'd  like  to  know  ? 


THE  NEWS 

Whut  dat  you  whisperin'  keepin'  f'om  me  ? 
Don't  shut  me  out  'cause  I's  ol'  an'  can't 

see. 
Somep'n's  gone  wrong  dat's  a-causin'  you 

dread, — 
Don't  be  afeared  to  tell— Whut!   mastah 

dead? 

Somebody  brung  de  news  early  to-day, — 
One  of  de  sojers  he  led,  do  you  say  ? 
Didn't  he  foller  whah  ol'  mastah  led  ? 
How  kin  he  live  w'en  his  leadah  is  dead  ? 

Let  me  lay  down  awhile,  dah  by  his  bed  ; 
I  wants  to  t'ink, — hit  ain't  cleah  in  my 

head :  — 

Killed  while  a-leadin'  his  men  into  fight, — 
Dat's  whut  you  said,  ain't  it,  did  I  hyeah 

right? 


Mastah,  my  mastah,  dead  dah  in  de  fieP  ? 
Lif '  me  up  some, — dah,  jes'  so  I  kin  kneel. 
I  was  too  weak  to  go  wid  him,  dey  said, 
Well,  now  I'll — fin'  him — so — mastah   is 
dead. 

Yes,  suh,  I's  comin'  ez  fas'  ez  I  kin, — 
'Twas  kin'  o'  da'k,  but  hit's  lightah  agin  : 
P'omised  yo'  pappy  I'd  allus  tek  keer 
Of   you, — yes,    mastah, —  I's    follerin' — 
hyeah ! 


CHRISMUS  ON  THE  PLANTATION 

It  was  Chrismus  Eve,  I  mind  hit  fu'  a 
mighty  gloomy  day  — 

Bofe  de  weathah  an'  de  people — not  a  one 
of  us  was  gay ; 

Cose  you'll  t'ink  dat's  mighty  funny  'twell 
I  try  to  mek  hit  cleah, 

Fu'  a  da'ky's  allus  happy  when  de  holi- 
days is  neah. 

But  we  wasn't,  fu'  dat  mo'nin'  mastah'd 
tol'  us  we  mus'  go, 

He'  been  payin'  us  sence  freedom,  but  he 
couldn't  pay  no  mo' ; 

He  wa'n't  nevah  used  to  plannin'  'fo'  he 
got  so  po'  an'  ol', 

So  he  gwine  to  give  up  tryin',  an'  de  home- 
stead mus'  be  sol'. 

I  kin  see  him  stan'in'  now  erpon  de  step 

ez  cleah  ez  day, 
Wid  de  win'  a-kin'  o'  fondlin'  thoo  his  haih 

all  thin  an'  gray ; 
An'  I  'membah  how  he  trimbled  when  he 

said,  "  It's  ha'd  fu'  me, 
Not  to  mek  yo'  Chrismus  brightah,  but  I 

'low  it  wa'n't  to  be." 

All  de  women  was  a  cryin',  an'  de  men, 

too,  on  de  sly, 
An'  I  noticed  somep'n  shinin'  even  in  ol' 

mastah's  eye, 
But  we  all  stood  still  to  listen  ez  ol'  Ben 

come  f'om  de  crowd 
An'  spoke  up,  a-tryin'  to  steady  down  his 

voice  and  mek  it  loud :  — 


232 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


"  Look   hyeah,  Mastah,  I's  been   servin' 

yo'  fu'  lo  !  dese  many  yeahs, 
An'  now,  sence  we's  got  freedom  an'  you's 

kind  o'  po',  hit  'pears 
Dat  you  want  us  all  to  leave  you  'cause 

you  don't  t'ink  you  can  pay. 
Ef  my  membry  hasn't  fooled  me,  seem  dat 

whut  I  hyead  you  say. 

"  Er  in  othah  wo'ds,  you  wants  us  to  fu'git 

dat  you's  been  kin', 
An'  ez  soon  ez  you  is  he'pless,  we's  to  leave 

you  hyeah  behin'. 
Well,  ef  dat's  de  way  dis  freedom  ac's  on 

people,  white  er  black, 
You  kin  jes'  tell  Mistah  Lincum  fu'  to  tek 

his  freedom  back. 

"  We  gwine  to  wo'k  dis  ol'  plantation  fu' 

whatevah  we  kin  git, 
Fu'  I  know  hit  did  suppo't  us,  an'  de  place 

kin  do  it  yit. 
Now  de  land  is  yo's,  de  hands  is  ouahs,  an' 

I  reckon  we'll  be  brave, 
An'  we'll  bah  ez  much  ez  you  do  w'en  we 

has  to  scrape  an'  save." 

Ol'  mastah  stood  dah  trimblin',  but  a-smilin' 

thoo  his  teahs, 
An'  den  hit  seemed  jes'  nachul-like,  de 

place  fan  rung  wid  cheahs, 
An'  soon  ez  dey  was  quiet,  some  one  sta'ted 

sof'  an'  low: 
"  Praise  God,"  an*  den  we  all  jined  in, 

"  from  whom  all  blessin's  flow  !  " 

Well,  dey  wasn't  no  use  tryin',  ouah  min's 

was  sot  to  stay, 
An'  po'  ol'  mastah  couldn't  plead  ner  baig, 

ner  drive  us  'way, 
An'  all  at  once,  hit  seemed  to  us,  de  day 

was  bright  agin, 
So  evah  one  was  gay  dat  night,  an'  watched 

de  Chrismus  in. 


FOOLIN'  WID  DE  SEASONS 

Seems  lak  folks  is  mighty  curus 
In  de  way  dey  t'inks  an'  ac's. 

Dey  jes'  spen's  dey  days  a-mixin' 
Up  de  t'ings  in  almanacs. 


Now,  I  min'  my  nex'  do'  neighbor, 
He's  a  mighty  likely  man, 

But  he  nevah  t'inks  o'  nuffin 
'Ceptin'  jes'-  to  plot  an'  plan. 


All  de  wintah  he  was  plannin' 

How  he'd  gethah  sassafras 
Jes'  ez  soon  ez  evah  Springtime 

Put  some  greenness  in  de  grass. 
An'  he  'lowed  a  little  soonah 

He  could  stan'  a  coolah  breeze 
So's  to  mek  a  little  money 

F'om  de  sugah-watah  trees. 

In  de  summah,  he'd  be  waihin' 

Out  de  linin'  of  his  soul, 
Try'n'  to  ca'ci'late  an'  fashion 

How  he'd  git  his  wintah  coal ; 
An'  I  b'lieve  he  got  his  jedgement 

Jes'  so  tuckahed  out  an'  thinned 
Dat  he  t'ought  a  robin's  whistle 

Was  de  whistle  of  de  wind. 


Why  won't  folks  gin  up  dey  plannin1, 

An'  jes'  be  content  to  know 
Dat  dey's  gittin'  all  dat's  fu'  dem 

In  de  days  dat  come  an'  go  ? 
Why  won't  folks  quit  movin'  forrard  ? 

Ain't  hit  bettah  jes'  to  stan' 
An'  be  satisfied  wid  livin' 

In  de.  season  dat's  at  han'  ? 

Hit's  enough  fu'  me  to  listen 

W'en  de  birds  is  singin'  'roun', 
'Dout  a-guessin'  whut'll  happen 

W'en  de  snow  is  on  de  groun'. 
In  de  Springtime  an'  de  summah, 

I  lays  sorrer  on  de  she'f ; 
An'  I  knows  ol'  Mistah  Wintah 

Gwine  to  hustle  fu'  hisse'f. 

We  been  put  hyeah  fu'  a  pu'pose, 

But  de  questun  dat  has  riz 
An'  made  lots  o'  people  diffah 

Is  jes'  whut  dat  pu'pose  is. 
Now,  accordin'  to  my  reas'nin', 

Hyeah's  de  p'int  whaih  I's  arriv, 
Sence  de  Lawd  put  life  into  us, 

We  was  put  hyeah  fu'  to  live ! 


I  LAYS  SORRER  ON  DE 


MEK  DE  SHADDERS  ON  DE  WALL 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


235 


AT  CANDLE-LIGHTIN'  TIME 

When  I  come  in  Pom  de  co'n-fieF  aftah 

wo'kin*  ha'd  all  day, 
It's   amazin'    nice  to  fin'  my  suppah   all 

erpon  de  way ; 
An'  it's  nice  to  smell  de  coffee  bubblin' 

ovah  in  de  pot, 
An'    it's    fine   to   see   de   meat   a-sizzlm' 

teasin'-lak  an'  hot. 

But  when  suppah-time   is   ovah,   an'   de 

t'ings  is  cleahed  away ; 
Den    de    happy  hours  dat  foller  are   de 

sweetes'  of  de  day. 
When  my  co'ncob  pipe  is  sta'ted,  an'  de 

smoke  is  drawin'  prime, 
My  ole  'ooman  says,  "I  reckon,  Ike,  it's 

candle-lightin'  time." 

Den  de  chillun  snuggle  up  to  me,  an'  all 

commence  to  call, 
"  Oh,  say,  daddy,  now  it's  time  to  mek  de 

shadders  on  de  wall." 
So  I  puts  my  han's  togethah — evah  daddy 

knows  de  way, — 
An'  de  chillun  snuggle  closer  roun'  ez  I 

begin  to  say :  — 

"Fus'  thing,  hyeah  come  Mistah  Rabbit; 

don'  you  see  him  wo'k  his  eahs  ? 
Huh,  uh !  dis  mus'  be  a  donkey, — look, 

how  innercent  he  'pears  ! 
Dah's  de   ole  black   swan  a-swimmin' — 

ain't  she  got  a'  awful  neck  ? 
Who's   dis  feller   dat's  a-comin' ?     Why, 

dat's  ole  dog  Tray,  I  'spec'  !  " 

Dat's  de  way  I  run  on,  tryin'  fu'  to  please 

'em  all  I  can  ; 
Den   I   hollahs,   "  Now    be   keerful — dis 

hyeah  las'  's  de  buga-man !  " 
An'   dey  runs  an'  hides  dey  faces;  dey 

ain't  skeered — dey's  lettin'  on  : 
But  de    play  ain't   raaly  ovah  twell  dat 

buga-man  is  gone. 

So  I  jes'  teks  up  my  banjo,  an'  I  plays  a 

little  chune, 
An'  you  see  dem  haids  come  peepin'  out 

to  listen  mighty  soon. 


Den  my  wife  says,  "  Sich  a  pappy  fu'  to 

give  you  sich  a  fright ! 
Jes'  you  go  to  baid,  an'  leave   him :  say 

yo'  prayers  an'  say  good-night." 


ANGELINA 

When  de  fiddle  gits  to  singin'  out  a  oP 

Vahginny  reel, 
An1  you  'mence  to  feel  a  ticklin'  in  yo'  toe 

an'  in  yo'  heel ; 
Ef   you   t'ink   you   got   'uligion  an'   you 

wants  to  keep  it,  too, 
You  jes'  bettah  tek  a  hint  an'  git  yo'self 

clean  out  o'  view. 
Case  de  time  is  mighty  temptin'  when  de 

chune  is  in  de  swing, 
Fu'  a  darky,  saint  or  sinner  man,  to  cut  de 

pigeon-wing. 
An'  you  couldn't  he'p  fom  dancin'  ef  yo' 

feet  was  boun'  wif  twine, 
W^hen  Angelina  Johnson  comes  a-swingin' 

down  de  line. 

Don't  you  know  Miss  Angelina?     She's 

de  da'lin'  of  de  place. 
W'y,  dey  ain't  no  high-toned  lady  wif  sich 

mannahs  an'  sich  grace. 
She   kin   move  across  de   cabin,   wif  its 

planks  all  rough  an*  wo' ; 
Jes'  de  same's  ef  she    was  dancin'  on  oP 

mistus'  ball-room  flo'. 
Fact  is,  you  do'  see  no  cabin — evaht'ing 

you  see  look  grand, 
An'  dat   one  oP  squeaky  fiddle   soun'  to 

you  jes'  lak  a  ban' ; 
Cotton  britches  look  lak  broadclof  an*  a 

linsey  dress  look  fine, 
When  Angelina  Johnson  comes  a-swingin* 

down  de  line. 

Some  folks  say  dat  dancin's  sinful,  an*  de 

blessed  Lawd,  dey  say, 
Gwine  to  purnish  us  fu'  steppin'  w'en  we 

hyeah  de  music  play. 
But  I   tell  you   I  don'  b'lieve  it,  fu'  de 

Lawd  is  wise  and  good, 
An  he  made  de  banjo's  metal  an'  he  made 

de  fiddle's  wood, 


236 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


An'  he  made  de  music  in  dem,  so  I  don* 

quite  I'ink  he'll  keer 
Ef    our    feet    keeps   time   a  little  to  de 

melodies  we  hyeah. 
W'y,  dey's  somepV  downright  holy  in  de 

way  our  faces  shine, 
When  Angelina  Johnson  comes  a-swingin' 

down  de  line. 

Angelina  steps  so  gentle,  Angelina  bows 

so  low, 
An'  she  UP  huh  sku't  so  dainty  dat  huh 

shoetop  skacely  show : 
An'  dem  teef  o'  huh'n  a-shinin',  ez  she  tek 

you  by  de  han' — 
Go  'way,  people,  d'ain't  anothah  sich  a 

lady  in  de  Ian' ! 
When  she's  movin'    thoo  de    figgers   er 

a-dancin'  by  huhse'f, 
Folks  jes'  stan'  stock-still  a-sta'in',  an'  dey 

mos'  nigh  hoi's  dey  bref ; 
An'  de  young  mens,  dey's  a-sayin',  "  I's 

gwine  mek  dat  damsel  mine," 
When  Angelina  Johnson  comes  a-swingin' 

down  de  line. 


MY  SORT  O'  MAN 

I  don't  believe  in  'ristercrats 

An'  never  did,  you  see  ; 
The  plain  ol'  homelike  sorter  folks 

Is  good  enough  fur  me. 
O*  course,  I  don't  desire  a  man 

To  be  too  tarnal  rough, 
But  then,  I  think  all  folks  should  know 

When  they  air  nice  enough. 

Now  there  is  folks  in  this  here  world, 

From  peasant  up  to  king, 
Who  want  to  be  so  awful  nice 

They  overdo  the  thing. 
That's  jest  the  thing  that  makes  me  sick, 

An'  quicker'n  a  wink 
I  set  it  down  that  them  same  folks 

Ain't  half  so  good's  you  think. 

I  like  to  see  a  man  dress  nice, 

In  clothes  becomin'  too  ; 
I  like  to  see  a  woman  fix 

As  women  orter  to  do ; 


An'  boys  an'  gals  I  like  to  see 
Look  fresh  an'  young  an'  spry, — 

We  all  must  have  our  vanity 
An'  pride  before  we  die. 

But  I  jedge  no  man  by  his  clothes,— 

Nor  gentleman  nor  tramp ; 
The  man  that  wears  the  finest  suit 

May  be  the  biggest  scamp, 
An'  he  whose  limbs  air  clad  in  rags 

That  make  a  mournful  sight, 
In  life's  great  battle  may  have  proved 

A  hero  in  the  fight. 

I  don't  believe  in  'ristercrats ; 

I  like  the  honest  tan 
That  lies  upon  the  heathful  cheek 

An'  speaks  the  honest  man  ; 
I  like  to  grasp  the  brawny  hand 

That  labor's  lips  have  kissed, 
For  he  who  has  not  labored  here 

Life's  greatest  pride  has  missed  : 

The  pride  to  feel  that  yore  own  strength 

Has  cleaved  fur  you  the  way 
To  heights  to  which  you  were  not  born, 

But  struggled  day  by  day. 
What  though  the  thousands  sneer  an'  scoff, 

An'  scorn  yore  humble  birth  ? 
Kings  are  but  puppets  ;  you  are  king 

By  right  o'  royal  worth. 

The  man  who  simply  sits  an'  waits 

Fur  good  to  come  along, 
Ain't  worth  the  breath  that  one  would  take 

To  tell  him  he  is  wrong. 
Fur  good  ain't  flowin'  round  this  world 

Fur  every  fool  to  sup ; 
You've  got  to  put  yore  see-ers  on, 

An'  go  an'  hunt  it  up. 


Good  goes  with  honesty,  I  say, 

To  honor  an'  to  bless  ; 
To  rich  an'  poor  alike  it  brings 

A  wealth  o'  happiness. 
The  'ristercrats  ain't  got  it  all, 

Fur  much  to  their  su'prise, 
That's  one  of  earth's  most  blessed  things 

They  can't  monopolize. 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


23? 


POSSUM 

Ef  dey's  anyt'ing  dat  riles  me 

An'  jes'  gits  me  out  o'  hitch, 
Twell  I  want  to  tek  my  coat  off, 

So's  to  r'ar  an'  t'ar  an'  pitch, 
Hit's  to  see  some  ign'ant  white  man 

'Mittin'  dat  owdacious  sin  — 
Wen  he  want  to  cook  a  possum 

Tekin'  off  de  possum's  skin. 

Wy,  dey  ain't  no  use  in  talkin', 

Hit  jes'  hu'ts  me  to  de  hea't 
Fu'  to  see  dem  foolish  people 

Th'owin'  'way  de  fines'  pa't. 
Wy,  dat  skin  is  jes'  ez  tendah 

An'  ez  juicy  ez  kin  be ; 
I  knows  all  erbout  de  critter  — 

Hide  an'  haih — don't  talk  to  me ! 

Possum  skin  is  jes'  lak  shoat  skin ; 

Jes'  you  swinge  an'  scrope  it  down, 
Tek  a  good  sha'p  knife  an'  sco'  it, 

Den  you  bake  it  good  an'  brown. 
Huh-uh  !  honey,  you's  so  happy 

Dat  yo'  thoughts  is  'mos'  a  sin 
When  you's  settin'  dah  a-chawin' 

On  dat  possum's  cracklin'  skin. 

White  folks  t'ink  dey  know  'bout  eatin', 

An'  I  reckon  dat  dey  do 
Sometimes  git  a  little  idee 

Of  a  middlin'  dish  er  two ; 
But  dey  ain't  a  t'ing  dey  knows  of 

Dat  I  reckon  cain't  be  beat 
Wen  we  set  down  at  de  table 

To  a  unskun  possum's  meat ! 

ON  THE  ROAD 

I's  boun'  to  see  my  gal  to-night  — 

Oh,  lone  de  way,  my  dearie  ! 
De  moon  ain't  out,  de  stars  ain't  bright  — 

Oh,  lone  de  way,  my  dearie ! 
Dis  hoss  o'  mine  is  pow'ful  slow, 
But  when  I  does  git  to  yo'  do' 
Yo'  kiss'll  pay  me  back,  an'  mo', 

Dough  lone  de  way,  my  dearie. 

De  night  is  skeery-lak  an'  still  — 

Oh,  lone  de  way,  my  dearie  ! 
'Cept  fu'  dat  mou'nful  whippo-'will — 

Oh,  lone  de  way,  my  dearie ! 


De  way  so  long  wif  dis  slow  pace, 
'T'u'd  seem  to  me  lak  savin'  grace 
Ef  you  was  on  a  nearer  place, 
Fu'  lone  de  way,  my  dearie. 

I  hyeah  de  hootin'  of  de  owl  — 
Oh,  lone  de  way,  my  dearie ! 
I  wish  dat  watch-dog  wouldn't  howl  - 

Oh,  lone  de  way,  my  dearie ! 
An'  evaht'ing,  bofe  right  an'  lef ', 
Seem  p'int'ly  lak  hit  put  itse'f 
In  shape  to  skeer  me  half  to  def — 
Oh,  lone  de  way,  my  dearie ! 

I  whistles  so's  I  won't  be  feared  — 

Oh,  lone  de  way,  my  dearie ! 
But  anyhow  I's  kin'  o'  skeered, 
Fu'  lone  de  way,  my  dearie. 
De  sky  been  lookin'  mighty  glum, 
But  you  kin  mek  hit  lighten  some, 
Ef  you'll  jes'  say  you's  glad  I  come, 
Dough  lone  de  way,  my  dearie. 


A  BACK-LOG  SONG 

De  axes  has  been  ringin'  in  de  woods  de 

blessid  day, 
An'  de  chips  has  been  a-fallinf  fa'  an' 

thick; 
Dey   has   cut   de   bigges'  hick'ry  dat  de 

mules  kin  tote  away, 
An'  dey's  laid  hit  down  and  soaked  it  in 

de  crik. 
Den  dey  tuk  hit  to  de  big  house  an'  dey 

piled  de  wood  erroun' 
In    de    fiahplace   f'om    asli-flo'   to   de 

flue, 
While  ol*  Ezry  sta'ts  de  hymn  dat  evah 

yeah  has  got  to  soun' 
When     de     back-log    fus'     commence 
a-bu'nin'  thoo. 


Ol'  Mastah  is  a-smilin*  on  de  da'kies  f'om 

de  hall, 

Ol'  Mistus  is  a-stannin'  in  de  do', 
An*  de  young  folks,  males  an'  misses,  is 

a-tryin',  one  an'  all, 

Fu'  to  mek  us  feel  hit's  Chrismus  time 
fu'  sho'. 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


An'  ouah  hea'ts  are  full  of  pleasure,  fu'  we 

know  de  time  is  ouahs 
Fu'  to  dance  er  do  jes'  whut  we  wants 

to  do. 
An'  dey  ain't  no  ovahseer  an'  no  othah 

kind  o'  powahs 

Dat  kin  stop  us  while  dat  log  is  bu'nin' 
thoo. 

Dey's  a-wokin'  in  de  qua'tahs  a-preparin' 

fu'  de  feas', 

So  de  little  pigs  is  feelin'  kind  o'  shy. 
De  chickens  ain't  so  trus'ful  ez  dey  was,  to 

say  de  leas', 
An*  de  wise  ol'  hens  is  roostin'  mighty 

high. 
You  couldn't  git  a  gobblah  fu'  to  look  you 

in  de  face  — 
I  ain't  sayin'  whut  de  tu'ky  'spects  is 

true ; 
But  hit's  mighty  dange'ous  trav'lin'  fu'  de 

critters  on  de  place 

F'om     de     time     dat    log     commence 
a-bu'nin'  thoo. 

Some   one's  tunin'  up  his  fiddle   dah,   I 

hyeah  a  banjo's  ring, 
An',   bless   me,  dat's    de    tootin'   of   a 

ho'n! 
Now  dey'll  evah  one  be  runnin'  dat  has 

got  a  foot  to  fling, 
An'  dey'll  dance  an'  frolic  on  f 'om  now 

'twell  mo'n. 
Plunk  de  banjo,  scrap  de  fiddle,  blow  dat 

ho'n  yo'  level  bes', 
Keep  yo'  min'  erpon  de  chune  an*  step 

it  true. 
Oh,  dey  ain't  no  time  fu'  stoppin'  an'  dey 

ain't  no  time  fu1  res', 
Fu'  hit's    Chrismus  an'  de  back-log's 
bu'nin'  thoo ! 


JEALOUS 

Hyeah  come  Caesar  Higgins, 

Don't  he  think  he's  fine  ? 
Look  at  dem  new  riggin's 

Ain't  he  tryin'  to  shine  ?    , 
Got  a  standin'  collar 

An'  a  stovepipe  hat, 
I'll  jes'  bet  a  dollar 

Some  one  gin  him  dat. 


Don't  one  o'  you  mention, 

Nothin'  'bout  his  cloes, 
Don't  pay  no  attention, 

Er  let  on  you  knows 
Dat  he's  got  'em  on  him, 

Why,  't'll  mek  him  sick, 
Jes'  go  on  an'  sco'n  him, 

My,  ain't  dis  a  trick ! 

Look  hyeah,  whut's  he  doin* 

Lookin'  t'othah  way  ? 
Dat  ere  move's  a  new  one, 

Some  one  call  him,  "  Say !  " 
Can't  you  see  no  pusson  — 

Puttin'  on  you'  airs, 
Sakes  alive,  you's  wuss'n 

Dese  hyeah  millionaires. 

Needn't  git  so  flighty, 

Case  you  got  dat  suit. 
Dem  cloes  ain't  so  mighty,— 

Second  hand  to  boot, 
I's  a-tryin'  to  spite  you ! 

Full  of  jealousy! 
Look  hyeah,  man,  I'll  fight  you, 

Don't  you  fool  wid  me  ! 

PARTED 

De  breeze  is  blowin'  'cross  de  bay. 

My  lady,  my  lady ; 
De  ship  hit  teks  me  far  away, 

My  lady,  my  lady. 

Ole  Mas'  done  sol'  me  down  de  stream ; 
Dey  tell  me  'tain't  so  bad's  hit  seem, 

My  lady,  my  lady. 

O'  co'se  I  knows  dat  you'll  be  true, 

My  lady,  my  lady ; 
But  den  I  do'  know  whut  to  do, 

My  lady,  my  lady. 

I  knowed  some  day  we'd  have  to  pa't, 
But  den  hit  put'  nigh  breaks  my  hea't, 

My  lady,  my  lady. 

De  day  is  long,  de  night  is  black, 

My  lady,  my  lady  ; 
I  know  you'll  wait  twell  I  come  back, 

My  lady,  my  lady. 
I'll  stan'  de  ship,  I'll  stan'  de  chain, 
But  I'll  come  back,  my  darlin'  Jane, 

My  lady,  my  lady. 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


239 


Jes'  wait,  jes'  b'lieve  in  whut  I  say, 

My  lady,  my  lady ; 
D'ain't  nothin'  dat  kin  keep  me  'way, 

My  lady,  my  lady. 
A  man's  a  man,  an'  love  is  love  ; 
God  knows  ouah  hea'ts,  my  little  dove  ; 
He'll  he'p  us  f 'om  his  th'one  above, 

My  lady,  my  lady. 

TEMPTATION 

I  done  got  'uligion,  honey,  an'  I's  happy 
ez  a  king ; 

Evahthing  I  see  erbout  me's  jes'  lak  sun- 
shine in  de  spring ; 

An*  it  seems  lak  I  do'  want  to  do  anothah 
blessid  thing 

But  jes'  run  an'  tell  de  neighbors,  an'  to 
shout  an'  pray  an'  sing. 

I  done  shuk  my  fis'  at  Satan,  an'  I's  gin 

de  worF  my  back ; 
I  do'  want  no  hendrin'  causes  now  a-both- 

'rin'  in  my  track ; 
Fu'  I's  on  my  way  to  glory,  an'  I  feels  too 

sho'  to  miss. 
W'y,  dey   ain't   no  use   in   sinnin'    when 

'uligion's  sweet  ez  dis. 

Talk  erbout  a  man  backslidin'  w'en  he's 
on  de  gospel  way  ; 

No,  suh,  I  done  beat  de  debbil,  an'  Temp- 
tation's los'  de  day. 

Gwine  to  keep  my  eyes  right  straight  up, 
gwine  to  shet  my  eahs,  an'  see 

Whut  ole  projick  Mistah  Satan's  gwine  to 
try  to  wuk  on  me. 

Listen,  whut  dat  soun'  I  hyeah  dah  ?  'tain't 

no  one  commence  to  sing; 
It's   a    fiddle;  git   erway    dah!  don'   you 

hyeah  dat  blessid  thing  ? 
W'y,  dat's  sweet  ez  drippin'  honey,  'cause, 

you  knows,  I  draws  de  bow, 
An'  when  music's  sho'  'nough  music,   I's 

de  one  dat's  sho'  to  know. 

W'y,  I's  done  de  double  shuffle,  twell  a 

body  couldn't  res', 
Jes'  a-hyeahin'  Sam  de  fiddlah  play  dat 

chune  his  level  bes'; 

14 


I  could  cut  a  mighty  caper,  I  could  gin  a 

mighty  fling 
Jes'  right  now,  I's  mo*  dan  suttain  I  could 

cut  de  pigeon  wing. 


Look  hyeah,  whut's  dis  I's  been  sayin'  ? 

whut  on  urf 's  tuk  holt  o*  me  ? 
Dat  ole  music  come  nigh  runnin'  my  'uligion 

up  a  tree ! 
Cleah  out  wif  dat  dah  ole  fiddle,  don'  you 

try  dat  trick  agin ; 
Didn't  think  I  could  be  tempted,  but  you 

lak  to  made  me  sin ! 


POSSUM  TROT 

I've  journeyed  'roun*  consid'able,  a-seein' 

men  an'  things, 
An'  I've  learned  a  little  of  the  sense  that 

meetin'  people  brings ; 
But  in  spite  of  all  my  travelin',  an'  of  all 

I  think  I  know, 
I've  got  one  notion  in  my  head,  that  I  can't 

git  to  go ; 
An'  it  is  that  the  folks  I  meet  in  any  other 

spot 
Ain't  half  so  good  as  them  I  knowed  back 

home  in  Possum  Trot. 


I  know  you've  never  heerd  the  name,  it 

ain't  a  famous  place, 
An*  I  reckon  ef  you'd  search  the  map  you 

couldn't  find  a  trace 
Of  any  sich  locality  as  this  I've  named  to 

you; 
But  never  mind,  I  know  the  place,  an'  I 

love  it  dearly,  too. 
It  don't  make  no  pretensions  to  bein*  great 

or  fine, 
The  circuses  don't  come  that  way,   they 

ain't  no  railroad  line. 
It    ain't    no   great    big    city,  where   the 

schemers  plan  an'  plot, 
But  jest  a  little  settlement,  this  place  called 

Possum  Trot. 

But  don't  you  think  the  folks  that  lived  in 

that  outlandish  place 
Were  ignorant  of  all  the  things  that  go  for 

sense  or  grace. 


240 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


Why,  there  was  Hannah  Dyer,  you  may 

search  this  teemin'  earth 
An*  never  find  a  sweeter  girl,  er  one  o' 

greater  worth ; 
An'  Uncle  Abner  Williams,  a-leanin'  on 

his  staff, 
It  seems  like  I  kin  hear  him  talk,  an'  hear 

his  hearty  laugh. 
His  heart  was  big  an'  cheery  as  a  sunny 

acre  lot, 
Why,  that's  the  kind  o'  folks  we  had  down 

there  at  Possum  Trot. 

Good    times?     Well,  now,  to    suit    my 

taste, — an'  I'm  some  hard  to  suit, — 
There  ain't  been  no  sich  pleasure  sence,  an' 

won't  be  none  to  boot, 
With  huskin'  bees  in  Harvest  time,  an' 

dances  later  on, 
An'  singin'  school,  an'  taffy  pulls,  an'  fun 

from  night  till  dawn. 
Revivals  come  in  winter  time,  baptizin's 

in  the  spring, 
You'd  ought  to  seen  those  people  shout, 

an'  heerd  'em  pray  an'  sing ; 
You'd  ought  to've  heard  ole  Parson  Brown 

a-throwin'  gospel  shot 
Among  the  saints  an'  sinners  in  the  days 

of  Possum  Trot. 

We  live  up  in  the  city  now,  my  wife  was 

bound  to  come ; 
I  hear  aroun'  me  day  by  day  the  endless 

stir  an'  hum. 
I  reckon  that  it  done  me  good,  an'  yet  it 

done  me  harm, 
That  oil  was  found  so  plentiful  down  there 

on  my  ole  farm. 
We've    got    a    new-styled    preacher,  our 

church  is  new-styled,  too, 
An'  I've  come  down  from  what  I  knowed 

to  rent  a  cushioned  pew. 
But  often  when  I'm  settin'  there,  it's  fool- 
ish, like  as  not, 
To  think  of  them  oP  benches  in  the  church 

at  Possum  Trot. 

I   know    that    I'm    ungrateful,   an'   sich 

thoughts  must  be  a  sin, 
But  I  find  myself  a  wishin'  that  the  times 

was  back  agin. 


With  the  huskin's  an'  the  frolics,  an'  the 

joys  I  used  to  know, 
When  I  lived  at  the  settlement,  a  dozen 

years  ago. 
I  don't  feel   this  way  often,  I'm  scarcely 

ever  glum, 
For  life   has  taught  me  how  to  take  her 

chances  as  they  come. 
But  now  an'  then  my  mind  goes  back  to 

that  oP  buryin*  plot, 
That  holds  the  dust  of  some  I  loved,  down 

there  at  Possum  Trot. 


DELY 

Jes'  lak  toddy  wahms  you  thoo' 

Sets  yo'  haid  a  reelin', 
Meks  you  ovah  good  and  new, 

Dat's  de  way  I's  feelin'. 
Seems  to  me  hit's  summah  time, 

Dough  hit's  wintah  reely, 
I's  a  feelin'  jes'  dat  prime  — 

An'  huh  name  is  Dely. 

Dis  hyeah  love's  a  cu'rus  thing, 

Changes  'roun'  de  season, 
Meks  you  sad  or  meks  you  sing, 

'Dout  no  urfly  reason. 
Sometimes  I  go  mopin*  'roun', 

Den  agin  I's  leapin' ; 
Sperits  allus  up  an'  down 

Even  when  I's  sleepin'. 

Fu'  de  dreams  comes  to  me  den, 

An'  dey  keeps  me  pitchin', 
Lak  de  apple  dumplin's  w'en 

Bilin'  in  de  kitchen. 
Some  one  sot  to  do  me  hahm, 

Tryin'  to  ovahcome  me, 
Ketchin*  Dely  by  de  ahm 

So's  to  tek  huh  f 'om  me. 

Mon,  you  bettah  b'lieve  I  fights 

(Dough  hit's  on'y  seemin')  ; 
I's  a  hittin'  fu'  my  rights 

Even  w'en  I's  dreamin'. 
But  I'd  let  you  have  'em  all, 

Give  'em  to  you  freely, 
Good  an'  bad  ones,  great  an'  small, 

So's  you  leave  me  Dely. 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


241 


Dely  got  dem  meltin'  eyes, 

Big  an'  black  an'  tendah. 
Dely  jes'  a  lady-size, 

Delikit  an'  slendah. 
Dely  brown  ez  brown  kin  be 

An'  huh  haih  is  curly ; 
Oh,  she  look  so  sweet  to  me, — 

Bless  de  precious  girlie  ! 

Dely  brown  ez  brown  kin  be, 

She  ain'  no  mullatter; 
She  pure  cullud, — don'  you  see 

Dat's  jes'  whut's  de  mattah  ? 
Dat's  de  why  I  love  huh  so, 

D'  ain't  no  mix  about  huh, 
Soon's  you  see  huh  face  you  know 

D'  ain't  no  chanst  to  doubt  huh. 

Folks  dey  go  to  chu'ch  an'  pray 

So's  to  git  a  blessin'. 
Oomph,  dey  bettah  come  my  way, 

Dey  could  lu'n  a  lesson. 
Sabbaf  day  I  don'  go  fu', 

Jes'  to  see  my  pigeon ; 
I  jes'  sets  an'  looks  at  huh, 

Dat's  enuff  'uligion. 

BREAKING  THE  CHARM 

Caught  Susanner  whistlin' ;  well, 
It's  most  nigh  too  good  to  tell. 
'Twould  'a'  b'en  too  good  to  see 
Ef  it  hadn't  b'en  fur  me, 
Comin'  up  so  soft  an'  sly  * 
That  she  didn'  hear  me  nigh. 
I  was  pokin'  'round  that  day, 
An'  ez  I  come  down  the  way, 
First  her  whistle  strikes  my  ears, — 
Then  her  gingham  dress  appears ; 
So  with  soft  step  up  I  slips. 
Oh,  them  dewy,  rosy  lips  ! 
Ripe  ez  cherries,  red  an'  round, 
Puckered  up  to  make  the  sound. 
She  was  lookin'  in  the  spring, 
Whistlin'  to  beat  anything, — 
«  Kitty  Dale  "  er  "  In  the  Sweet." 
I  was  jest  so  mortal  beat 
That  I  can't  quite  ricoleck 
What  the  toon  was,  but  I  'speck 
'Twas  some  hymn  er  other,  fur 
Hymny  things  is  jest  like  her. 
Well  she  went  on  fur  awhile 
With  her  face  all  in  a  smile, 


An*  I  never  moved,  but  stood 

Stiller'n  a  piece  o'  wood  — 

Wouldn't  wink  ner  wouldn't  stir, 

But  a-gazin'  right  at  her, 

Tell  she  turns  an'  sees  me — my ! 

Thought  at  first  she'd  try  to  fly. 

But  she  blushed  an'  stood  her  ground. 

Then,  a-slyly  lookin'  round, 

She  says  :  "  Did  you  hear  me,  Ben  ?  " 

"  Whistlin'  woman,  crowin'  hen," 

Says  I,  lookin'  awful  stern. 

Then  the  red  commenced  to  burn 

In  them  cheeks  o'  hern.     Why,  la  ! 

Reddest  red  you  ever  saw  — 

Pineys  wa'n't  a  circumstance. 

You'd  'a'  noticed  in  a  glance 

She  was  pow'rful  shamed  an'  skeart ; 

But  she  looked  so  sweet  an'  peart, 

That  a  idee  struck  my  head  • 

So  I  up  an'  slowly  said  : 

"  Woman  whistlin'  brings  shore  harm, 

Jest  one  thing'll  break  the  charm." 

"  And  what's  that  ?  "  «  Oh,  my  !  "  says  I, 

"  I  don't  like  to  tell  you."     "  Why  ?  " 

Says  Susanner.     «  Well,  you  see 

It  would  kinder  fall  on  me." 

Course  I  knowed  that  she'd  insist,— 

So  I  says :     "  You  must  be  kissed 

By  the  man  that  heard  you  whistle  ; 

Everybody  says  that  this'll 

Break  the  charm  and  set  you  free 

From  the  threat'nin'  penalty." 

She  was  blushin'  fit  to  kill, 

But  she  answered,  kinder  still : 

*«  I  don't  want  to  have  no  harm, 

Please  come,  Ben,  an'  break  the  charm." 

Did  I  break  that  charm  ? —  oh,  well, 

There's  some  things  I  mustn't  tell. 

I  remember,  afterwhile, 

Her  a-sayin'  with  a  smile  : 

"  Oh,  you  quit, — you  sassy  dunce, 

You  jest  caught  me  whistlin'  once." 

Ev'ry  sence  that  when  I  hear 

Some  one  whistlin'  kinder  clear, 

I  most  break  my  neck  to  see 

Ef  it's  Susy ;  but,  dear  me, 

I  jest  find  I've  b'en  to  chase 

Some  blamed  boy  about  the  place. 

Dad's  b'en  noticin'  my  way, 

An'  last  night  I  heerd  him  say : 

"  We  must  send  fur  Dr.  Glenn, 

Mother;  somethin's  wrong  with  Ben!" 


242 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


HUNTING  SONG 

Tek  a  cool  night,  good  an'  clean, 
Skiff"  o'  snow  upon  de  groun' ; 
Jes'  'bout  fall-time  o'  de  yeah 

Wen  de  leaves  is  dry  an'  brown ; 
Tek  a  dog  an'  tek  a  axe, 

Tek  a  lantu'n  in  yo'  han', 
Step  light  whah  de  switches  cracks, 

Fu'  dey's  huntin'  in  de  Ian'. 
Down  thoo  de  valleys  an'  ovah  de  hills, 
Into  de  woods  whah  de  'simmon-  tree 

grows, 

Wakin'  an'  skeerin'  de  po'  whippo'wilk, 
Huntin'  fu'   coon   an'   fu'   'possum  we 
goes. 

Blow  dat  ho'n  dah  loud  an'  strong, 

Call  de  dogs  an'  da'kies  neah ; 
Mek  its  music  cleah  an'  long, 

So  de  folks  at  home  kin  hyeah. 
Blow  it  twell  de  hills  an'  trees 

Sen's  de  echoes  tumblin'  back ; 
Blow  it  twell  de  back'ard  breeze 
Tells  de  folks  we's  on  de  track. 
Coons  is  a-ramblin'  an'  'possums  is. out ; 
Look  at  dat  dog ;  you  could  set  on  his 

tail! 
Watch     him     now — steady, — min' — what 

you's  about, 
Bless  me,  dat  animal's  got  on  de  trail ! 

Listen  to  him  ba'kin'»now  ! 

Dat  means  bus'ness,  she's  you  bo'n  ; 
Ef  he's  struck  de  scent  I  'low 

Dat  ere  'possum's  sholy  gone. 
Knowed  dat  dog  fu'  fo'teen  yeahs, 

An'  I  nevah  seed  him  fail 
Wen  he  sot  dem  flappin'  eahs 

An'  went  off  upon  a  trail. 
Run,    Mistah  'Possum,   an'   run,    Mistah 

Coon, 

No  place  is  safe   fu'   yo'   ramblin*   to- 
night ; 

Mas'  gin*  de  lantu'n  an'  God  gin  de  moon, 
An'  a  long  hunt  gins  a  good  appetite. 

Look    hyeah,    folks,    you    hyeah     dat 
change  ? 

Dat  ba'k  is  sha'per  dan  de  res'. 
Dat  ere  soun'  ain't  nothin*  strange, — 

Dat  dog's  talked  his  level  bes'. 


Somep'n*  's  treed,  I  know  de  souh'. 

Dah  now, — wha'd  I  tell  you  ?  see  ! 
Dat  ere  dog  done  run  him  down  ; 

Come  hyeah,  he'p  cut  down  dis  tree* 
Ah,  Mistah  'Possum,  we  got  you  at  las' — 
Needn't   play  daid,  laying  dah  on  de 

groun' ; 
Pros'  an'  de  'simmons  has  made  you  grow 

fas',— 

Won't  he  be  fine  when  he's  roasted  up 
brown  ! 


A  LETTER 

DEAR  Miss  LUCY  ;  I  been  t'inkin'  dat 

I'd  write  you  long  fo'  dis, 
But  dis  writin'  's  mighty  tejous,  an'  you 

know  jes'  how  it  is. 
But  I's  got  a  little  lesure,  so  I  teks  my  pen 

in  han' 
Fu'  to  let  you  know  my  feelin's  since  I 

retched  dis  furrin'  Ian'. 
I's  right  well,  I's  glad  to  tell  you  (dough 

dis  climate  ain't  to  blame), 
An'  I  hopes  w'en  dese  lines  reach  you,  dat 

dey'll  fin'  yo'se'f  de  same. 
Cose  I'se  feelin'  kin'  o'  homesick — dat's 

ez  nachul  ez  kin  be, 
W'en  a  feller's  mo'n  th'ee  thousand  miles 

across  dat  awful  sea. 
(Don't  you  let  nobidy  fool  you  'bout  de 

ocean  bein'  gran' ; 
If  you  want  to   see   de   billers,   you  jes' 

view  dem  f 'om  de  Ian'.) 
'Bout  de  people  ?     We  been  t'inkin'  dat 

all  white  folks  was  alak  ; 
But  dese  Englishmen  is  diffunt,  an'  dey's 

curus  fu'  a  fac'. 
Fust,    dey's    heavier   an'   redder   in  dey 

make-up  an'  dey  looks, 
An'  dey   don't  put  salt  nor  pepper  in  a 

blessed  t'ing  dey  cooks  ! 
Wen  dey  gin  you  good  ol'  tu'nips,  ca'ots, 

pa'snips,  beets,  an'  sich, 
Ef  dey  ain't  some  one  to   tell  you,  you 

cain't  'stinguish  which  is  which. 
Wen  I  'fought  I'se  eatin'  chicken— you 

may  b'lieve  dis  hyeah's  a  lie  — 
But  de  waiter  beat  me  down   dat   I  was 

eatin'  rabbit  pie. 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


243 


An'  dey'd  t'ink  dat  you  was  crazy — jes'  a 

reg'lar  ravin'  loon, 
Ef  you'd  speak  erbout  a  'possum  or  a  piece 

o'  good  ol'  coon. 

0  hit's  mighty  nice,  dis  trav'lin',  an'  I's 

kin'  o'  glad  I  come. 

But,  I  reckon,  now  I's  willin'  fu'  to  tek  my 
way  back  home. 

1  done   see    de    Crystal    Palace,    an'    I's 

hyeahd  dey  string-band  play, 
But  I  hasn't  seen  no  banjos  layin'  nowhahs 

roun'  dis  way. 
Jes'  gin  ol'  Jim  Bowles  a  banjo,  an'  he'd 

not  go  very  fu', 
'Fo'  he'd  outplayed  all  dese  fiddlers,  wif 

dey  flourish  and  dey  stir. 
Evahbiddy    dat    I's    met   wif   has    been 

monst'ous  kin'  an'  good  ; 
But  I  t'ink  I'd  lak  it  better  to  be  down  in 

Jones's  wood, 
Where  we  ust  to  have  sich  frolics,  Lucy, 

you  an'  me  an'  Nelse, 
Dough  my  appetite  'ud  call  me,   ef  dey 

wasn't  nuffin  else. 
I'd  jes'  lak  to  have  some  sweet-pertaters 

roasted  in  de  skin  ; 

I's  a-longin'  fu'  my  chittlin's  an'  my  mus- 
tard greens  ergin ; 
I's  a-wishin'  fu'  some  buttermilk,  an'  co'n 

braid,  good  an'  brown, 
An*  a  drap  o'  good  ol'  bourbon  fu'  to  wash 

my  feelin's  down ! 
An'  I's  comin'    back  to  see  you  jes'   as 

ehly  as  I  kin, 
So    you   better   not  go   spa'kin'   wif  dat 

wuffless  scoun'el  Quin  ! 
Well,  I  reckon,  I  mus*   close  now ;  write 

ez  soon's  dis  reaches  you; 
Gi'  my  love  to  Sister  Mandy  an'  to  Uncle 

Isham,  too. 
Tell  de  folks  I  sen'  'em  howdy ;  gin  a  kiss 

to  pap  an'  mam ; 
Closin'  I  is,  deah  Miss  Lucy, 

Still  Yo'  Own  True-Lovin'  SAM. 


P.  S.     Ef  you  cain't  mek  out  dis  letter, 

lay  it  by  erpon  de  she'f, 
An'  when  I  git  home,  I'll  read  it, 
darlin',  to  you  my  own  se'f. 


A  CABIN  TALE 

THE  YOUNG   MASTER   ASKS   FOR   A    STORY 

Whut  you  say,  dah  ?  huh,  uh  !  chile, 

You's  enough  to  dribe  me  wile. 

Want  a  sto'y ;  jes'  hyeah  dat ! 

Whah'  '11  I  git  a  sto'y  at  ? 

Di'n'  I  tell  you  th'ee  las'  night  ? 

Go  'way,  honey,  you  ain't  right. 

I  got  somep'n'  else  to  do, 

'Cides  jes'  tellin'  tales  to  you. 

Tell  you  jes'  one  ?     Lem  me  see 

Whut  dat  one's  a-gwine  to  be. 

When  you's  ole,  yo  membry  fails ; 

Seems  lak  I  do'  know  no  tales. 

Well,  set  down  dah  in  dat  cheer, 

Keep  still  ef  you  wants  to  hyeah. 

Tek  dat  chin  up  off  yo'  han's, 

Set  up  nice  now.     Goodness  lan's ! 

Hoi'  yo'se'f  up  lak  yo'  pa. 

Bet  nobidy  evah  saw 

Him  scrunched  down  lak  you  was  den  — 

High-tone  boys  meks  high-tone  men. 

Once  dey  was  a  ole  black  bah, 
Used  to  live  'roun'  hyeah  somewhah 
In  a  cave.     He  was  so  big 
He  could  ca'y  off  a  pig 
Lak  you  picks  a  chicken  up, 
Er  yo'  leetles'  bit  o'  pup. 
An'  he  had  two  gread  big  eyes, 
Jes'  erbout  a  saucer's  size. 
Why,  dey  looked  lak  balls  o'  fiah 
Jumpin*  'roun'  erpon  a  wiah 
W'en  dat  bah  was  mad  ;  an'  laws  ! 
But  you  ought  to  seen  his  paws ! 
Did  I  see  em  ?     How  you  'spec 
I's  a-gwine  to  ricollec' 
Dis  hyeah  ya'n  I's  try'n'  to  spin 
Ef  you  keeps  on  puttin'  in  ? 
You  keep  still  an*  don't  you  cheep 
Less  I'll  sen'  you  off  to  sleep. 
Dis  hyeah  bah'd  go  trompin'  'roun' 
Eatin'  evahthing  he  foun' ; 
No  one  couldn't  have  a  fa'm 
But  dat  bah  'u'd  do  'em  ha'm  ; 
And  dey  couldn't  ketch  de  scamp. 
Anywhah  he  wan'ed  to  tramp, 
Dah  de  scoun'el  'd  mek  his  track, 
Do  his  du't  an'  come  on  back. 
He  was  sich  a  sly  ole  limb. 
Traps  was  jes'  lak  fun  to  him. 


244 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


Now,  down  neah  whah  Mistah  Bah 
Lived,  dey  was  a  weasel  dah  ; 
But  dey  wasn't  fren's  a-tall 
Case  de  weasel  was  so  small. 
An*  de  bah   'u'd,  jes'  fu'  sass, 
Tu'n  his  nose  up  w'en  he'd  pass. 
Weasels's  small  o'  cose,  but  my  ! 
Dem  air  animiles  is  sly. 
So  dis  hyeah  one  says,  says  he, 
«  I'll  jes'  fix  dat  bah,  you  see." 
So  he  fixes  up  his  plan 
An'  hunts  up  de  fa'merman. 
When  de  fa'mer  see  him  come, 
He  'mence  lookin'  mighty  glum, 
An'  he  ketches  up  a  stick  ; 
But  de  weasel  speak  up  quick : 
"  Hoi'  on,  Mistah  Fa'mer  man, 
I  wan*  'splain  a  little  plan. 
Ef  you  waits,  I'll  tell  you  whah 
An'  jes'  how  to  ketch  ol'  Bah. 
But  I  tell  you  now  you  mus' 
Gin  me  one  fat  chicken  fus'." 
Den  de  man  he  scratch  his  haid, 
Las'  he  say,  "  I'll  mek  de  trade." 
So  de  weasel  et  his  hen, 
Smacked  his  mouf  and  says, "  Well,  den, 
Set  yo'  trap  an'  bait  ternight, 
An'  I'll  ketch  de  bah  all  right." 
Den  he  ups  an'  goes  to  see 
Mistah  Bah,  an'  says,  says  he  : 
' •  Well,  fren'  Bah,  we  ain't  been  fren's, 
But  ternight  ha'd  feelin'  'en's. 
Ef  you  ain't  too  proud  to  steal, 
We  kin  git  a  splendid  meal. 
Cose  I  wouldn't  come  to  you, 
But  it  mus'  be  done  by  two ; 
Hit's  a  trap,  but  we  kin  beat 
All  dey  tricks  an'  git  de  meat." 
"  Cose  I's  wif  you,"  says  de  bah, 
"  Come  on,  weasel,  show  me  whah." 
Well,  dey  trots  erlong  ontwell 
Dat  air  meat  beginned  to  smell 
In  de  trap.     Den  weasel  say  : 
"  Now  you  put  yo'  paw  dis  way 
While  I  hoi'  de  spring  back  so, 
Den  you  grab  de  meat  an'  go." 
Well,  de  bah  he  had  to  grin 
Ez  he  put  his  big  paw  in, 
Den  he  juked  up,  but — -kerbing ! 
Weasel  done  let  go  de  spring. 
"  Dah  now,"  says  de  weasel,  "  dah, 
I  done  cotched  you,  Mistah  Bah  1 " 


O  dat  bah  did  sno't  and  spout, 
Try'n'  his  bestes'  to  git  out, 
But  de  weasel  say,  "  Goo'-bye  ! 
Weasel  small,  but  weasel  sly." 
Den  he  tu'ned  his  back  an'  run 
Tol'  de  fa'mer  whut  he  done. 
So  de  fa'mer  come  down  dah, 
Wif  a  axe  and  killed  de  bah. 


Dah  now,  ain't  dat  sto'y  fine  ? 
Run  erlong  now,  nevah  min'. 
Want  some  mo',  you  rascal,  you  ? 
No,  suh  !  no,  suh  !  dat'll  do. 


WHISTLING  SAM 

I   has   hyeahd   o'  people  dancin'  an'  I's 

hyeahd  o'  people  singin'. 
An'  I's  been  'roun'  lots  of  othahs  dat  could 

keep  de  banjo  ringin'; 
But  of  all  de  whistlin'  da'kies  dat  have 

lived  an'  died  since  Ham, 
De  whistlin'est  I  evah  seed  was  oF  Ike 

Bates's  Sam. 
In  de  kitchen  er  de  stable,  in  de  fiel'  er 

mowin'  hay, 
You  could  hyeah  dat  boy  a-whistlin'  pu'ty 

nigh  a  mile  erway, — 
Puck'rin'  up  his  ugly  features  'twell  you 

couldn't  see  his  eyes, 
Den  you'd  hyeah  a  soun'  lak  dis  un  f  om 

dat  awful  puckah  rise  : 


When  dey  had  revival   meetin*  an*  de 

Lawd's  good  grace  was  flowin' 
On  de  groun'  dat  needed  wat'rin'  whaih  de 

seeds  of  good  was  growin', 
While  de  othahs  was  a-singin'  an'  a-shoutin* 

right  an'  lef, 
You  could  hyeah  dat  boy  a-whistlin'  kin* 

o'  sof  beneaf  his  bref : 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


245 


S=£ 


At  de  call  fu'  colo'ed  soldiers,  Sam  en- 
listed 'mong  de  res' 
Wid  de  blue  o'  Gawd's  great  ahmy  wropped 

about  his  swellin'  breas', 
An'  he  laffed  an'  whistled  loudah  in  his 

youfful  joy  an'  glee 
Dat  de  govament  would  let  him  he'p  to 

mek  his  people  free. 
Daih  was  lots  o'  ties  to  bin'  him,  pappy, 

mammy,  an'  his  Dinah, — 
Binah,  min'  you,  was  his  sweethea't,  an' 

dey  wasn't  nary  finah ; 
But  he  lef  'em  all,  I  tell  you,  lak  a  king 

he  ma'ched  away, 
TryV   his  level   bes'  to  whistle,  happy, 

solemn,  choky,  gay: 


To  de  front  he  went  an'  bravely  fought  de 

foe  an'  kep'  his  sperrit, 
An*  his  comerds  said  his  whistle  made  'em 

strong  when  dey  could  hyeah  it. 
When  a  saber  er  a  bullet  cut  some  frien' 

o'  his'n  down, 
An'  de  time  'u'd  come  to  trench  him  an* 

de  boys  'u'd  gethah  'roun', 
An'  dey  couldn't  sta't  a  hymn-tune,  mebbe 

none  o'  dem  'u'd  keer, 
Sam  'u'd  whistle  "  Sleep  in  Jesus,"  an'  he 

knowed  de  Mastah  'd  hyeah. 
In  de  camp,  all  sad  discouraged,  he  would 

cheer  de  hea'ts  of  all, 
When  above  de  soun'  of  labor  dey  could 

hyeah  his  whistle  call : 


m 


When  de  cruel  wah  was  ovah  an*  de  boys 

come  ma'chin'  back, 
Dey  was  shouts  an'  cries  an'  blessin's  all 

erlong  dey  happy  track, 
An'  de  da'kies  all  was  happy;  souls  an' 

bodies  bofe  was  freed. 
Why,  hit  seemed  lak  de  Redeemah  mus* 

V  been  on  earf  indeed. 
Dey  was  gethahed  all  one  evenin'  jes'  befo' 

de  cabin  do', 
When  dey  hyeahd  somebody  whistlin'  kin' 

o'  sof  an'  sweet  an'  low. 
Dey  couldn't  see  de  whistlah,  but  de  hymn 

was  cleah  and  ca'm, 
An'  dey  all  stood  daih  a-listenin'  ontwell 

Dinah  shouted,  "  Sam !  " 
An'  dey  seed  a  little  da'ky  way  off  yandah 

thoo  de  trees 
Wid  his  face  all  in  a  puckah  mekin'  jes' 

sich  soun's  ez  dese : 


HOW  LUCY  BACKSLID 

De  times  is  mighty  stirrin'  'mong  de  people 

up  ouah  way, 
Dey  'sputin'  an'  dey  argyin'  an'  fussin' 

night  an'  day ; 
An'  all  dis  monst'ous  trouble  dat  hit  meks 

me  tiahed  to  tell 
Is  'bout  dat  Lucy  Jackson  dat  was  sich  a 

mighty  belle. 

She  was  de  preachah's  favored,  an*  he  tol' 

de  chu'ch  one  night 
Dat  she   traveled   thoo  de   cloud  o'   sin 

a-bearin'  of  a  light ; 
But,  now,  I  'low  he  t'inkin'  dat  she  mus* 

'a'  los'  huh  lamp, 
Case  Lucy  done  backslided  an'  dey  trouble 

in  de  camp. 


246 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


Huh  daddy  wants  to  beat  huh,  but  huh 

mammy  daihs  him  to, 
Fu'   she   lookin'   at  de   question   fom   a 

ooman's  pint  o'  view ; 
An'  she  say  dat  now  she  wouldn't  have  it 

diff  ent  ef  she  could ; 
Dat   huh  darter  only  acted  jes'  lak  any 

othah  would. 

Cose  you  know  w'en  women  argy,  dey  is 

mighty  easy  led 
By  dey  hea'ts  an'  don't  go  foolin'  'bout  de 

reasons  of  de  haid. 
So  huh  mammy  laid  de  law  down  (she 

ain*  reckernizin'  wrong), 
But  you  got  to  mek  erlowance  fu'  de  cause 

dat  go  along. 

Now  de  cause  dat  made  Miss  Lucy  fu'  to 

th'ow  huh  grace  away 
I's  afeard  won't  baih  no  'spection  w'en  hit 

come  to  jedgement  day ; 
Do'  de  same   t'ing  been  a-wo'kin*  evah 

sence  de  worl'  began, — 
De  ooman  disobeyin'  fu'  to  'tice  along  a 

man. 

Ef  you  'tended  de  revivals  which  we  held 

de  wintah  pas', 
You  kin  rickolec'  dat  convuts  was  a-comin' 

thick  an'  fas' ; 
But  dey  ain't  no  use  in  talkin',  dey  was  all 

lef  in  de  lu'ch 
W'en  ol'  Mis'  Jackson's  dartah  foun*  huh 

peace  an'  tuk  de  chu'ch. 

W'y,  she  shouted  ovah  evah  inch  of  Eben- 

ezah's  flo' ; 
Up  into  de  preachah's  pulpit  an'  fom  dah 

down  to  de  do' ; 
Den  she  hugged  an'  squeezed  huh  mammy, 

an'  she  hugged  an'  kissed  huh  dad, 
An'  she  struck  out  at  huh  sistah,  people 

said,  lak  she  was  mad. 

I  has  'tended  some  revivals  dat  was  lively 

in  my  day, 
An'  I's  seed  folks  git  'uligion  in  mos'  evah 

kin'  o'  way ; 
But  I  tell  you,  an'  you  b'lieve  me  dat  I's 

speakin'  true  indeed, 
Dat  gal  tuk  huh  'ligion  ha'dah  dan  de 

ha'dest  yit  I's  seed. 


Well,   fom  dat,  'twas  "Sistah  Jackson, 

won't  you  please  do  dis  er  dat  ?  " 
She  mus'  allus  sta't  de  singin'  w'en  dey'd 

pass  erroun'  de  hat, 
An*  hit  seemed  dey  wasn't  nuffin'  in  dat 

chu'ch  dat  could  go  by 
'Dout  sistah  Lucy  Jackson  had  a  finger  in 

de  pie. 

But  de  say  in'  mighty  trufeful  dat  hit  easiah 

to  sail 
W'en   de  sea  is  ca'm  an'  gentle  dan  to 

weathah  out  a  gale. 
Dat's  whut  made  dis  ooman's  trouble  ;  ef 

de  sto'm  had  kep'  away, 
She'd  'a'  had  enough  'uligion  fu'  to  lasted 

out  huh  day. 

Lucy  went  wid  'Lishy  Davis,  but  w'en  she 

jined  chu'ch,  you  know 
Dah  was  lots  o'  little  places  dat,  of  cose, 

she  couldn't  go ; 
An*   she   had   to  gin  up  dancin'  an'  huh 

singin'  an'  huh  play. — 
Now  hit's  nachul  dat  sich  goin's-on  Vd 

drive  a  man  away. 

So,  w'en  Lucy  got  so  solemn,  Ike  he  sta'ted 

fu'  to  go 
Wid  a  gal  who  was  a  sinnah  an'  could  mek 

a  bettah  show. 
Lucy  jes'  went  on  to  meetin'  lak  she  didn't 

keer  a  rap, 
But  my  'sperunce  kep'  me  t'inkin'  dah  was 

somep'n'  gwine  to  drap. 

Fu'  a  gal  won't  let  'uligion  er  no  othah 

so't  o'  t'ing 
Stop  huh  w'en  she  teks  a  notion  dat  she 

wants  a  weddin'  ring. 
You  kin  p'omise  huh  deblessin's  of  a  happy 

aftah  life 
(An*  hit's  nice  to  be  a  angel),  but  she'd 

ravah  be  a  wife. 

So  w'en  Christmas  come  an'  mastah  gin  a 

frolic  on  de  lawn, 
Didn't  'sprise  me  not  de  littlest  seein'  Lucy 

lookin'  on. 
An'  I  seed  a  wa'nin'  lightnin'  go  a-flashin' 

fom  huh  eye 
Jest  ez  'Lishy  an'  his  new  gal  went  a-galli- 

vantin'  by. 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


247 


An*  dat  Tildy,  umph  !  she  giggled,  an'  she 
gin  huh  dress  a  flirt 

Lak  de  people  she  was  passin'  was  ez  com- 
mon ez  de  dirt ; 

An'  de  minit  she  was  dancin',  w'y  dat  gal 
put  on  mo'  aihs 

Dan  a  cat  a-tekin'  kittens  up  a  paih  o' 
windin'  staihs. 

She  could  'fo'd  to  show  huh  sma'tness,  fu' 

she  couldn't  he'p  but  know 
Dat  wid  jes'  de  present  dancahs  she  was 

ownah  of  de  flo' ; 
But  I  t'ink  she'd  kin'  o'  cooled  down  ef 

she  happened  on  de  sly 
Fu'  to  noticed  dat  'ere  lightnin'  dat  I  seed 

in  Lucy's  eye. 

An'  she  wouldn't  been  so  'stonished  w'en 

de  people  gin  a  shout, 
An'  Lucy  th'owed  huh  mantle  back  an' 

come  a-glidin'  out. 
Some  ahms  was  dah  to  tek  huh  an'  she 

fluttahed  down  de  flo' 
Lak  a  feddah  f 'om  a  bedtick,  w'en  de  win* 

commence  to  blow 

Soon  as  Tildy  see  de  trouble,  she  jes'  tu'n 

an'  toss  huh  haid, 
But  seem  lak  she  los'  huh  sperrit,  all  huh 

darin'ness  was  daid. 
Didn't  cut  anothah  capah  nary  time  de 

blessid  night ; 
But  de  othah  one,  hit  looked  lak  couldn't 

git  enough  delight. 

W'en   you   keeps  a  colt  a-stan'in'  in  de 

stable  all  along, 
W'en  he  do  git  out  hit's  nachul  he'll  be 

pullin'  mighty  strong. 
Ef  you  will  tie  up  yo'  feelin's,  hyeah's  de 

bes'  advice  to  tek, 
Look  out  fu'  an  awful  loosin'  w'en  de  string 

dat  hoi's  'em  brek. 

Lucy's  mammy  groaned  to  see  huh,  an* 

huh  pappy  sto'med  an*  to', 
But  she  kep'  right  on  a-hol'in'  to  de  centah 

of  de  flo'. 
So   dey   went   an'   ast  de   pastoh   ef   he 

couldn't  mek  huh  quit, 
But   de   tellin'   of   de    sto'y   th'owed   de 

preachah  in  a  fit. 


Tildy  Taylor  chewed  huh  hank'cher  twell 

she'd  chewed  it  in  a  hole, — 
All  de  sinnahs  was  rejoicin*  'cause  a  lamb 

hadlef'de  fol', 
An*  de  las'  I  seed  o'  Lucy,,  she  an'  'Lish 

was  side  an*  side  : 
I  don't  blame  de  gal  fu'  dancin',  an'  I 

couldn't  ef  I  tried. 

Fu'    de    men    dat    wants    to    ma'y    ain't 

a-growin'  'roun'  on  trees, 
An  de  gal  dat  wants  to  git  one  sholy  has 

to  try  to  please. 
Hit's  a  ha'd  t'ing  fu'  a  ooman  fu'  to  pray 

an'  jes'  set  down, 
An'  to  sacafice  a  husban'  so's   to  try  to 

gain  a  crown. 

Now,  I  don*  say  she  was  justified  in  fol- 

lowin'  huh  plan ; 
But  aldough  she  los'  huh  'ligion,  yit  she 

sholy  got  de  man. 
Latah  on,  w'en  she  is  suttain  dat  de  preach- 

ah's  made  'em  fas' 
She  kin  jes'  go  back  to  chu'ch  an*  ax  fu'- 

giveness  fu'  de  pas' ! 


TO  THE  ROAD 

Cool  is  the  wind,  for  the  summer  is  waning, 

Who's  for  the  road  ? 

Sun-flecked  and  soft,  where  the  dead  leaves 
are  raining, 

Who's  for  the  road  ? 
Knapsack  and  alpenstock  press  hand  and 

shoulder, 

Prick  of  the  brier  and  roll  of  the  boulder  ; 
This  be  your  lot  till  the  season  grow  older ; 

Who's  for  the  road  ? 

Up  and  away  in  the  hush  of  the  morning, 

Who's  for  the  road  ? 
Vagabond  he,  all  conventions  a-scorning, 

Who's  for  the  road  ? 
Music  of  warblers-so  merrily  singing, 
Draughts  from  the  rill  from  the  roadside 

upspringing, 

Nectar  of  grapes   from   the  vines  lowly 
swinging, 

These  on  the  road. 


248 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


Now  every  house  is  a  hut  or  a  hovel, 

Come  to  the  road : 
Mankind  and  moles  in  the  dark  love  to 

grovel, 

.But  to  the  road. 
Throw  off  the  loads  that  are  bending  you 

double  ; 

Love  is  for  life,  only  labor  is  trouble ; 
Truce  to  the  town,  whose  best  gift  is  a 

bubble : 
Come  to  the  road  ! 


TWO  LITTLE  BOOTS 

In  reading  this  touching  little  poem,  one 
is  constrained  to  compare  it  with  Eugene 
Field's  "  Little  Boy  Blue  " — the  same  sen- 
timent, the  same  appeal  to  the  world's 
heart  which  loves  a  baby  and  mourns  its 
death — but  there  is  a  difference.  Field 
wrote  of  a  white  baby  who  played  with  a 
little  tin  soldier  and  other  toys — while 
Dunbar's  « two  little  boots  "  belonged  to 
some  black  woman's  po'  little  lam'.  Both 
are  universal,  each  has  its  own  special  ap- 
plication, and  the  stanzas  add  one  more 
argument  to  Dunbar's  burden  of  proof  that 
the  negro  is  "  more  human  than  African." 

Two  little  boots  all  rough  an'  wo', 

Two  little  boots ! 
Laws,  I's  kissed  'em  times  befo', 

Dese  little  boots ! 
Seems  de  toes  a-peepin*  thoo 
Dis  hyeah  hole  an'  sayin  "  Boo !  " 
Evah  time  dey  looks  at  you  — 

Dese  little  boots. 

Membah  de  time  he  put  'em  on, 

Dese  little  boots ; 
Riz  an'  called  fu'  'em  by  dawn, 

Dese  little  boots; 
Den  he  tromped  de  livelong  day, 
Laffin'  in  his  happy  way, 
Evaht'ing  he  had  to  say, 

"  My  little  boots !  " 

Kickin'  de  san*  de  whole  day  long, 

Dem  little  boots ; 
Good  de  cobblah  made  'em  strong, 

Dem  little  boots ! 


Rocks  was  fu'  dat  baby's  use, 
I 'on  had  to  stan'  abuse 
Wen  you  tu'ned  dese  champeens  loose, 
Dese  little  boots ! 

Ust  to  make  de  ol'  cat  cry, 

Dese  little  boots ; 
Den  you  walked  it  mighty  high, 

Proud  little  boots ! 
Ahms  akimbo,  stan'in'  wide, 
Eyes  a-sayin'  "  Dis  is  pride  !  " 
Den  de  manny-baby  stride ! 

You  little  boots. 

Somehow,  you  don'  seem  so  gay, 

Po'  little  boots, 
Sence  yo'  ownah  went  erway, 

Po'  little  boots ! 

Yo'  bright  tops  don'  look  so  red, 
Dese  brass  tips  is  dull  an'  dead ; 
"  Goo'-by,"  whut  de  baby  said ; 

Deah  little  boots ! 


Ain't  you  kin'  o'  sad  yo'se'f, 
You  little  boots  ? 

Dis  is  all  his  mammy's  lef ', 
Two  little  boots. 

Sence  huh  baby  gone  an'  died, 

Heav'n  itse'f  hit  seem  to  hide 

Des  a  little  bit  inside 
Two  little  boots. 


IN  MAY 

Oh,  to  have  you  in  May, 

To  walk  with  you  under  the  trees, 
Dreaming  throughout  the  day, 

Drinking  the  wine-like  breeze, 

Oh,  it  were  sweet  to  think 

That  May  should  be  ours  again, 

Hoping  it  not,  I  shrink, 
Out  of  the  sight  of  men. 

May  brings  the  flowers  to  bloom, 

It  brings  the  green  leaves  to  the  tree, 

And  the  fatally  sweet  perfume, 
Of  what  you  once  were  to  me. 


DESE  LITTLE  BOOTS 


COME  ON  WALKIN'  WID  ME,  LUCY 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


251 


A  SPRING  WOOING 

Come  on  walkin'  wid  me,  Lucy ;  'tain't  no 

time  to  mope  erroun' 
Wen  de  sunshine's  shoutin'  glory  in  de 

sky, 
An'     de     little    Johnny-Jump-Ups's     jes' 

a-springin'  f 'om  de  groun', 
Den  a-lookin'  roun'  to  ax  each  othah  w'y. 
Don'   you  hyeah   dem  cows  a-mooin'  ? 

Dat's  dey  howdy  to  de  spring ; 
Ain'  dey  lookin*  most  oncommon  satis- 
fied? 
Hit's  enough  to  mek  a  body  want  to  spread 

dey  mouf  an'  sing 

Jes'  to  see  de  critters  all  so  spa'klin'- 
eyed. 


W'y  dat  squir'l  dat  jes'  run  past  us,  ef  I 

didn'  know  his  tricks, 
I  could  swaih  he'd  got 'uligion  jes'  to- 
day; 
An'   dem    liza'ds   slippin'   back  an'   fofe 

ermong  de  stones  an'  sticks 
Is  a-wigglin'  'cause  dey  feel  so  awful  gay. 
Oh,  I  see  yo'  eyes  a-shinin'  dough  you  try 

to  mek  me  b'lieve 
Dat  you  ain'  so  monst'ous  happy  'cause 

you  come  ; 
But  I  tell  you  dis  hyeah  weathah  meks  it 

moughty  ha'd  to  'ceive 
Ef  a  body's  soul  ain'  blin'  an'  deef  an' 
dumb. 


Robin  whistlin*  ovah  yandah  ez  he  buil' 

his  little  nes' ; 
Whut  you  reckon  dat  he  sayin'  to  his 

mate  ? 
He's  a  sayin'  dat  he  love  huh  in  de  wo'ds 

she  know  de  bes', 
An'  she  lookin'  moughty  pleased  at  whut 

he  state. 
Now,  Miss  Lucy,  dat  ah  robin  sholy  got 

his  sheer  o'  sense, 
An'  de  lien-bird  got  huh  mothah-wit  fu' 

true; 
So  I  t'ink  ef  you'll  ixcuse  me,  fu'  I  do' 

mean  no  erfence, 

Dey's  a  lesson  in  dem  birds  fu'  me  an' 
you. 


I's  a-buil'in'  o'  my  cabin,  an'  I's    vines 

erbove  de  do' 

Fu'  to  kin'  o'  gin  it  sheltah  f 'om  de  sun ; 
Gwine  to  have  a  little  kitchen  wid  a  reg'lar 

wooden  flo', 
An'  dey'll  be  a  back  verandy  w'en  hit's 

done. 
I's  a-waitin'  fu'  you,  Lucy,  tek  de  'zample 

o'  de  birds, 

Dat's  a-lovin'  an'  a-matin'  evahwhaih. 
I  cain'  tell  you  dat  I  loves  you  in  de  robin's 

music  wo'ds, 

But  my  cabin's    talkin'   fu'   me   ovah 
thaih ! 


JOGGIN'  ERLONG 

De  da'kest  hour,  dey  allus  say, 

Is  des'  befo'  de  dawn, 

But  it's  moughty  ha'd  a-waitin* 

Were  de  night  goes  frownin'  on ; 

An'  it's  moughty  ha'd  a-hopin' 

Wen  de  clouds  is  big  an'  black, 

An'  all  de  t'ings  you's  waited  fu' 

Has  failed,  er  gone  to  wrack  — 

But  des'  keep  on  a  joggin'  wid  a  little  bit 

o'  song, 
De  mo'n  is  allus  brightah  w'en  de  night's 

been  long. 

Dey's  lots  o'  knocks  you's  got  to  tek 

Befo'  yo'  journey's  done, 

An'  dey's  times  w'en  you'll  be  wishin' 

Dat  de  weary  race  was  run ; 

Wen  you  want  to  give  up  tryin' 

An'  des'  float  erpon  de  wave, 

Wen  you  don't  feel  no  mo'  sorrer 

Ez  you  t'ink  erbout  de  grave  — 

Den,  des'  keep  on  a-joggin'  wid  a  little 

bit  o'  song, 
De  mo'n  is  allus  brightah  w'en  de  night's 

been  long. 

De  whup-lash  sting  a  good  deal  mo' 
De  back  hit's  knowed  befo', 
An'  de  burden's  allus  heavies' 
Whaih  hits  weights  has  made  a  so* ; 
Dey  is  times  w'en  tribulation 
Seems  to  git  de  uppah  han' 
An'  to  whip  de  weary  trav'lah 


252 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


'Twell  he  ain't  got  stren'th  to  stan' — 
But  des'  keep  on  a-joggin'  wid  a  little  bit 

o'  song, 
De  mo'n  is  allus  brightah  w'en  de  night's 

been  long. 

DREAMS 

What  dreams  we  have  and  how  they  fly 
Like  rosy  clouds  across  the  sky  ; 
Of  wealth,  of  fame,  of  sure  success, 
Of  love  that  comes  to  cheer  and  bless ; 
And  how  they  wither,  how  they  fade, 
The  waning  wealth,  the  jilting  jade  — 
The  fame  that  for  a  moment  gleams, 
Then     flies     forever, — dreams,      ah — 
dreams ! 

O  burning  doubt  and  long  regret, 
O  tears  with  which  our  eyes  are  wet, 
Heart-throbs,   heart- aches,    the    glut  of 

pain, 

The  sombre  cloud,  the  bitter  rain, 
You  were  not  of  those  dreams — ah  !  well, 
Your  full  fruition'  who  can  tell  ? 

Wealth,  fame,  and  love,  ah !  love  that 

beams 

Upon    our     souls,     all     dreams — ah ! 
dreams. 


THE  TRYST 

De  night  creep  down  erlong  de  Ian', 

De  shadders  rise  an'  shake, 
De  frog  is  sta'tin*  up  his  ban', 

De  cricket  is  awake  ; 
My  wo'k  is  mos'  nigh  done,  Celes', 

To-night  I  won't  be  late, 
I's  hu'yin'  thoo  my  level  bes', 

Wait  fu'  me  by  de  gate. 

De  mockin'-bird  '11  sen'  his  glee 

A-thrillin'  thoo  and  thoo, 
I  know  dat  ol'  magnolia-tree 

Is  smellin'  des'  fu'  you  ; 
De  jessamine  erside  de  road 

Is  bloomin'  rich  an'  white, 
My  hea't's  a-th'obbin'  'cause  it  knowed 

You'd  wait  fu'  me  to-night. 

Hit's  lonesome,  ain't  it,  stan'in'  thaih 
Wid  no  one  nigh  to  talk  ? 


But  ain't  dey  whispahs  in  de  aih 

Erlong  de  gyahden  walk  ? 
Don't  somep'n'  kin'  o'  call  my  name, 

An'  say  "  he  love  you  bes'  "  ? 
Hit's  true,  I  wants  to  say  de  same, 

So  wait  fu'  me,  Celes'. 

Sing  somep'n'  fu'  to  pass  de  time, 

Outsing  de  mockin'-bird, 
You  got  de  music  an'  de  rhyme, 

You  beat  him  wid  de  word. 
I's  comin'  now,  my  wo'k  is  done, 

De  hour  has  come  fu'  res', 
I  wants  to  fly,  but  only  run  — 

Wait  fu'  me,  deah  Celes'. 

A  PLEA 

Treat  me  nice,  Miss  Mandy  Jane, 

Treat  me  nice. 
Dough  my  love  has  tu'ned  my  brain, 

Treat  me  nice. 

I  ain't  done  a  t'ing  to  shame, 
Lovahs  all  ac's  jes'  de  same : 
Don't  you  know  we  ain't  to  blame  ? 

Treat  me  nice ! 

Cose  I  know  I's  talkin'  wild; 

Treat  me  nice ; 
I  cain't  talk  no  bettah,  child, 

Treat  me  nice; 
Whut  a  pusson  gwine  to  do, 
W'en  he  come  a-cou'tin'  you 
All  a-trimblin'  thoo  and  thoo? 

Please  be  nice. 

Reckon  I  mus'  go  de  paf 

Othahs  do  : 
Lovahs  lingah,  ladies  laff; 

Mebbe  you 

Do'  mean  all  the  things  you  say, 
An'  pu'haps  some  latah  day 
W'en  I  baig  you  ha'd,  you  may 

Treat  me  nice ! 

THE  DOVE 

Out  of  the  sunshine  and  out  of  the  heat, 

Out  of  the  dust  of  the  grimy  street, 

A  song  fluttered  down  in  the  form  of 

dove, 
And  it  bore  me  a  message,  the  one  word  - 

Love! 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


253 


Ah,  I  was  toiling,  and  oh,  I  was  sad : 
I  had  forgotten  the  way  to  be  glad. 
Now,  smiles  for  my  sadness  and  for  my 

toil,  rest 
Since  the  dove  fluttered  down  to  its  home 

in  my  breast ! 


A  WARM  DAY  IN  WINTER 

"  Sunshine  on  de  medders, 

Greenness  on  de  way ; 
Dat's  de  blessed  reason 

I  sing  all  de  day." 
Look  hyeah !     Whut  you  axin'  ? 

Whut  meks  me  so  merry  ? 
'Spect  to  see  me  sighin' 

W'en  hit's  wa'm  in  Febawary  ? 


'Long  de  stake  an'  rider 

Seen  a  robin  set ; 
W'y,  hit  'mence  a-thawin', 

Groun'  is  monst'ous  wet. 
Den  you  stan'  dah  wond'rin', 

Lookin'  skeert  an'  stary ; 
I's  a  right  to  caper 

W'en  hit's  wa'm  in  Febawary. 


Missis  gone  a-drivin', 

Mastah  gone  to  shoot; 
Ev'ry  da'ky  lazin' 

In  de  sun  to  boot. 
Qua'tah's  moughty  pleasant, 

Hangin'  'roun'  my  Mary ; 
Cou'tin'  boun*  to  prospah 

W'en  hit's  wa'm  in  Febawary. 


Cidah  look  so  pu'ty 

Po'in'  i'om  de  jug  — 
Don'  you  see  it's  happy  ? 

Hyeah  it  laffin' — glug  ? 
Now's  de  time  fu'  people 

Fu'  to  try  an'  bury 
All  dey  grief  ^an'  sorrer, 

W'en  hit's  wa'm  in  Febawary. 


SNOWIN1 

Dey  is   snow  upon  de   meddahs,   dey  is 

snow  upon  de  hill, 
An'  de  little  branch's  watahs  is  all  glis- 

tenin'  an'  still; 
De  win'  goes  roun'  de  cabin  lak  a  sperrit 

wan'erin'  'roun', 
An'  de  chillen  shakes  an'  shivahs  as  dey 

listen  to  de  soun'. 
Dey  is  hick'ry  in  de  fiahplace,  whah  de 

blaze  is  risin'  high, 
But  de  heat  it  meks  ain't  wa'min'  up  de 

gray  clouds  in  de  sky. 
Now  an'  den  I  des  peep  outside,  den  I 

hurries  to  de  do', 
Lawd  a  mussy  on  my  body,  how  I  wish  it 

wouldn't  snow ! 

I  kin  stan'  de  hottes*  summah,  I  kin  stan' 

de  wettes'  fall, 
I    kin    stan^  de   chilly  springtime   in   de 

ploughland,  but  dat's  all ; 
Fu'  de  ve'y  hottes'  fiah   nevah   tells   my 

skin  a  t'ing, 
W'en  de  snow  commence  a-flyin',  an'  de 

win'  begin  to  sing. 
Dey  is  plenty  wood  erroun'  us,  an'  I  chop 

an'  tote  it  in, 
But  de  t'oughts  dat  I's  a  t'inkin'  while  I's 

wo'kin'  is  a  sin. 
I  kin  keep  f  om  downright  swahin'  all  de 

time  I's  on  de  go, 
But  my  hea't  is  full  o'  cuss-wo'ds  w'en  I's 

trampin'  thoo  de  snow. 

What  you  say,  you  Lishy  Davis,  dat  you 

see  a  possum's  tracks? 
Look   hyeah,   boy,   you   stop   yo'   foolin', 

bring  oP  Spot,  an'  bring  de  ax. 
Is  I  col'  ?    Go  way,  now,  Mandy,  what  you 

t'ink  I's  made  of? — sho, 
W'y  dis  win'  is  des  ez  gentle,  an'  dis  ain't 

no  kin'  o'  snow. 
Dis  hyeah  weathah's  des  ez  healthy  ez  de 

wa'mest  summah  days. 
All  you  chillen  step  up  lively,  pile  on  wood 

an'  keep  a  blaze. 
What's  de  use  o'  gittin'  skeery  case  dey's 

snow  upon  de  groun'  ? 
Huh-uh,  I's  a  reg'lar  snowbird  ef  dey's 

any  possum  'roun'. 


254 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


Go  on,  Spot,  don*  be  so  foolish ;  don*  you 

see  de  signs  o'  feet. 
What  you  howlin'  fu' ?     Keep  still,  suh, 

cose  de  col'  is  putty  sweet ; 
But  we  goin'  out  on  bus'ness,  an'  hit's 

bus'ness  o'  de  kin' 
Dat  mus'  put  a  dog  an*  dahky  in  a  happy 

frame  o'  min'. 
Yes,  you's  col' ;  I  know  it,  Spotty,  but  you 

des  stay  close  to  me, 
An'  I'll  mek  you  hot  ez  cotton  w'en  we 

strikes  de  happy  tree. 
No,  I  don'  lak  wintah  weathah,  an'  I'd 

wush  't  uz  allus  June, 
Et  it  wasn't  fu'  de  trackin'  o'  de  possum 

an'  de  coon. 

KEEP  A  SONG  UP  ON  DE  WAY 

Mr.  Dunbar  was  not  one  of  those  who 
do  not  "practice  what  they  preach." 
Through  all  his  troubles  and  trials, 
through  all  his  ill  health  and  consequent 
suffering  he  was  always  noted  for  his 
cheerfulness,  his  love  of  fun,  and  his  op- 
timism. Indeed  his  very  presence  de- 
noted that  he  was  trying,  at  least,  to 
"  Keep  a  Song  Up  on  de  Way." 

Oh,  de  clouds  is  mighty  heavy 
An'  de  rain  is  mighty  thick; 

Keep  a  song  up  on  de  way. 
An'  de  waters  is  a  rumblin' 
On  de  boulders  in  de  crick, 

Keep  a  song  up  on  de  way. 
Fu'  a  bird  ercross  de  road 
Is  a-singin'  lak  he  knowed 
Dat  we  people  didn't  daih 
Fu'  to  try  de  rainy  aih 

Wid  a  song  up  on  de  way. 

What's  de  use  o'  gittin'  mopy, 
Case  de  weather  ain'  de  bes' ! 

Keep  a  song  up  on  de  way. 
W'en  de  rain  is  fallin'  ha'des', 
Dey's  de  longes'  time  to  res' ; 

Keep  a  song  up  on  de  way. 
Dough  de  plough's  a-stan'in'  still 
Dey'll  be  watah  fu'  de  mill, 
Rain  mus'  come  ez  well  ez  sun 
'Fo'  de  weathah's  wo'k  is  done, 

Keep  a  song  up  on  de  way. 


W'y  hit's  nice  to  hyeah  de  showahs 
Fallin'  down  ermong  de  trees  : 

Keep  a  song  up  on  de  way. 
Ef  de  birds  don'  bothah  'bout  it, 
But  go  singin'  lak  dey  please, 

Keep  a  song  up  on  de  way. 
You  don'  s'pose  I's  gwine  to  see 
Dem  ah  fowls  do  mo'  dan  me  ? 
No,  suh,  I'll  des  chase  dis  frown, 
An'  aldough  de  rain  fall  down, 

Keep  a  song  up  on  de  way. 


THE  TURNING  OF  THE  BABIES 
IN  THE  BED 

Woman's  sho'  a  cur'ous  critter,  an'  dey 

ain't  no  doubtin'  dat. 
She's  a  mess  o'  funny  capahs  fom  huh 

slippahs  to  huh  hat. 
Ef  you  tries  to  un'erstan'  huh,  an'  you  fails, 

des'  up  an'  say  : 
"  D'  ain't  a  bit  o'  use  to  try  to  un'erstan'  a 

woman's  way." 

I  don'  mean  to  be  complainin',  but  I's  jes' 

a-settin'  down 
Some  o'  my  own  obserwations,  w'en  I  cas' 

my  eye  eroun'. 
Ef  you  ax  me  fu'  to  prove  it,  I  ken  do  it 

mighty  fine, 
Fu'  dey  ain't  no  bettah  'zample  den  dis 

ve'y  wife  o'  mine. 

In  de  ve'y  hea't  o'   midnight,  w'en   I's 

sleepin'  good  an'  soun', 
I  kin  hyeah  a  so't  o'  rustlin'  an'  somebody 

movin'  'roun'. 
An'  I  say,  "  Lize,  whut  you  doin'  ?  "     But 

she  frown  an'  shek  huh  haid, 
"  Heish  yo'  mouf,  I's  only  tu'nin'  of  de 

chillun  in  de  bed. 

"  Don*  you  know  a  chile  gits  restless,  layin* 

all  de  night  one  way  ? 
An'  you'  got  to  kind  o'  'range  him  sev'al 

times  befo'  de  day  ? 
So  de  little  necks  won't  worry,  an'  de  little 

backs  won't  break  ; 
Don'  you  t'ink  case  chillun's  chillun  dey 

hain't  got  no  pain  an'  ache." 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


255 


So  she  shakes  'em,  an'  she  twists  'enr,  an' 

she  tu'ns  'em  'roun'  erbout, 
'Twell  I  don'  see  how  de  chillun  evah 

keeps  fom  hollahin'  out. 
Den  she  lif's  'em  up  head  down'ards,  so's 

dey  won't  git  livah-grown, 
But  dey  snoozes  des'  ez  peaceful  ez  a  liza'd 

on  a  stone. 

Wen  hit's  mos'  nigh  time  fu'  wakin'  on 

de  dawn  o'  jedgment  day, 
Seems  lak  I  kin  hyeah  ol'  Gab'iel  lay  his 

trumpet  down  an'  say, 
"  Who  dat  walkin'  'roun'  so  easy,  down  on 

earf  ermong  de  dead  ?  "  — 
'Twill  be  Lizy  up  a-tu'nin'  of  de  chillun 

in  de  bed. 


THE  DANCE 

Heel  and  toe,  heel  and  toe, 

That  is  the  song  we  sing ; 
Turn  to  your  partner  and  curtsey  low, 

Balance  and  forward  and  swing. 
Corners  are  draughty  and  meadows  are 

white, 
This  is  the  game  for  a  winter's  night. 

Hands  around,  hands  around, 

Trip  it,  and  not  too  slow ; 
Clear  is  the  fiddle  and  sweet  its  sound, 

Keep  the  girls'  cheeks  aglow. 
Still  let  your  movements  be  dainty  and 

light, 
This  is  the  game  for  a  winter's  night. 

Back  to  back,  back  to  back, 

Turn  to  your  place  again ; 
Never  let  lightness  nor  nimbleness  lack, 

Either  in  maidens  or  men. 
Time  hasteth  ever,  beware  of  its  flight, 
Oh,  what  a  game  for  a  winter's  night ! 

Slower  now,  slower  now, 

Softer  the  music  sighs ; 
Look,  there  are  beads  on  your  partner's 
brow 

Though  there  be  light  in  her  eyes. 
Lead  her  away  and  her  grace  requite, 
So  goes  the  game  on  a  winter's  night. 


SOLILOQUY  OF  A  TURKEY 

Dey's  a  so't  o'  threatenin'  feelin'  in  de 

blowin'  of  de  breeze, 
An*  I's  feelin'  kin*  o'  squeamish  in  de 

night ; 
I's  a- walkin'  'roun'  a-lookin'  at  de  diffunt 

style  o'  trees, 
An'  a-measurin'  dey  thickness  an'  dey 

height. 
Fu'  dey's  somep'n'  mighty  'spicious  in  de 

looks  de  da'kies  give, 
Ez  dey  pass  me  an'  my  fambly  on  de 

groun', 
So  it  'curs  to  me  dat  lakly,  ef  I  caihs  to  try 

an'  live, 

It  concehns  me  fu'  to  'mence  to  look 
erroun'. 

Dey's  a  cu'ious  kin'  o'  shivah  runnin'  up 

an'  down  my  back, 

An'  I  feel  my  feddahs  rufnin'  all  de  day, 
An'  my  laigs  commence  to  trimble  evah 

blessid  step  I  mek; 

Wen  I  sees  a  ax,  I  tu'ns  my  head  away. 
Folks  is  go'gin'  me  wid  goodies,  an'  dey's 

treatin'  me  wid  caih, 
An'  I's  fat  in  spite  of  all  dat  I  kin  do. 
I's  mistrus'ful  of  de  kin'ness  dat's  erroun' 

me  evahwhaih, 

Fu'  it's  jes'  too  good,  an'  frequent,  to  be 
true. 

Snow's  a-fallin'  on  de  medders,  all  erroun' 

me  now  is  white, 
But   I's   still  kep'  on  a-roostin'  on  de 

fence ; 
Isham  comes  an'  feels  my  breas'bone,  an' 

he  hefted  me  las'  night, 
An'  he's   gone  erroun'  a-grinnin'  evah 

sence. 
'Tain't    de   snow   dat   meks   me   shivah ; 

'tain't  de  col'  dat  meks  me  shake ; 
'Tain't  de  wintah-time  itse'f  dat's  'fectin* 

me ; 
But  I  t'ink  de  time  is  comin',  an'  I'd  bet- 

tah  mek  a  break, 
Fu'  to  set  wid  Mistah  Possum  in  his  tree. 

Wen  you  hyeah  de  da'kies  singin',  an'  de 
quahtahs  all  is  gay, 


256 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


'Tain't  de  time  fu'  birds  lak  me  to  be 

erroun' ; 
Wen  de  hick'ry  chips  is  flyin',  an'  de  log's 

been  ca'ied  erway, 
Den  hit's  dang'ous  to  be  roostin*  nigh  de 

groun'. 
Grin  on,  Isham !     Sing  on,  da'kies !     But 

I  flop  my  wings  an*  go 
Fu'  de  sheltah  of  de  ve'y  highest  tree, 
Fu'  dey's  too  much  close  ertention — an' 

dey's  too  much  Tallin'  snow  — 
An'  it's  too  nigh  Chris'mus  mo'nin'  now 
fu'  me. 


THE  VALSE 

When  to  sweet  music  my  lady  is  dancing 
My   heart   to   mild   frenzy  her   beauty 

inspires. 
Into  my  face  are  her  brown  eyes  a-glanc- 

ing, 
And  swift  my  whole  frame  thrills  with 

tremulous  fires. 
Dance,  lady,  dance,  for  the  moments  are 

fleeting, 

Pause  not  to  place  yon  refractory  curl ; 
Life  is  for  love  and  the  night  is  for  sweet- 
ing; 
Dreamily,  joyously,  circle  and  whirl. 

Oh,  how  those  viols   are   throbbing  and 

pleading ; 
A  prayer  is  scarce  needed  in  sound  of 

their  strain. 

Surely  and  lightly  as  round  you  are  speed- 
ing, 
You  turn  to  confusion  my  heart  and  my 

brain. 

Dance,  lady,  dance  to  the  viol's  soft  call- 
ing, 

Skip  it  and  trip  it  as  light  as  the  air ; 
Dance,  for  the  moments  like  rose  leaves 

are  falling, 

Strikes,  now,  the  clock  from  its  place  on 
the  stair. 

Now  sinks  the  melody  lower  and  lower, 
The  weary  musicians  scarce  seeming  to 

play. 
Ah,  love,  your  steps  now  are  slower  and 

slower, 


The  smile  on  your  face  is  more  sad  and 

less  gay. 
Dance,  lady,  dance  to   the   brink  of  our 

parting, 
My  heart  and  your  step  must  not  fail  to 

be  light. 
Dance  !     Just  a  turn— tho'  the  tear-drop  be 

starting. 

Ah — now  it  is  done — so — my  lady,  good- 
night 1 


A  PLANTATION  PORTRAIT 

Hain't  you  see  my  Mandy  Lou, 

Is  it  true  ? 
Whaih  you  been  fom  day  to  day, 

Whaih,  I  say  ? 
Dat  you  say  you  nevah  seen 

Dis  hyeah  queen 
Walkin'  roun'  fom  fieP  to  street 

Smilin'  sweet? 

Slendah  ez  a  saplin'  tree ; 

Seems  to  me 
Wen  de  win'  blow  fom  de  bay 

She  jes'  sway 
Lak  de  reg'lar  saplin'  do 

Ef  hit's  grew 
Straight  an'  graceful,  'dout  a  limb, 

Sweet  an'  slim. 

Browner  den  de  frush's  wing, 

An'  she  sing 
Lak  he  mek  his  wa'ble  ring 

In  de  spring ; 
But  she  sholy  beat  de  frush, 

Hyeah  me,  hush : 
Wen  she  sing,  huh  teef  kin  show 

White  ez  snow. 

Eyes  ez  big  an'  roun'  an'  bright 

Ez  de  light 
Whut  de  moon  gives  in  de  prime 

Harvest  time. 
An'  huh  haih  a  woolly  skein, 

Black  an'  plain. 
Hoi's  you  wid  a  natchul  twis' 

Close  to  bliss. 

Tendah  han's  dat  mek  yo'  own 
Feel  lak  stone ; 


MY  MANDY  Lou 


BRING  DAT  BASKET,  NIGHAH 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


259 


Easy  steppin',  blessid  feet, 

Small  an'  sweet. 
Hain't  you  seen  my  Mandy  Lou, 

Is  it  true  ? 
Look  at  huh  befo'  she's  gone, 

Den  pass  on  ! 

THE  VISITOR 

Little  lady  at  de  do', 

W'y  you  stan'  dey  knockin*  ? 
Nevah  seen  you  ac'  befo' 
In  er  way  so  shockin'. 

Don'  you  know  de  sin  it  is 
Fu'  to  git  my  temper  riz 
Wen  I's  got  de  rheumatiz 
An'  my  jints  is  lockin'  ? 

No,  ol'  Miss  ain't  sont  you  down, 

Don'  you  tell  no  story ; 
I  been  seed  you  hangin'  'roun* 
Dis  hyeah  te'itory. 

You  des  come  fu'  me  to  tell 
You  a  tale,  an'  I  ain' — well — 
Look  hyeah,  what  is  dat  I  smell  ? 
Steamin' victuals?     Glory! 

Come  in,  Missy,  how  you  do? 

Come  up  by  de  fiah, 
I  was  jokin',  chile,  wid  you  ; 
Bring  dat  basket  nighah. 

Huh  uh,  ain'  dat  lak  ol'  Miss, 
Sen'in'  me  a  feas'  lak  dis  ? 
Rheumatiz  cain't  stop  my  bliss, 
Case  I's  feelin'  spryah. 

Chicken  meat  an'  gravy,  too, 

Hot  an'  still  a-heatin' ; 
Good  ol'  sweet  pertater  stew ; 
Missy  b'lieves  in  treatin'. 

Des  set  down,  you  blessed  chile, 
Daddy  got  to  t'ink  a  while, 
Den  a  story  mek  you  smile 
Wen  he  git  thoo  eatin'. 


FISHING 

Wen  I  git  up  in  de  mo'nin'  an*  de  clouds 

is  big  an'  black, 
Dey's    a    kin'    o'    wa'nin'    shivah    goes 

a-scootin'  down  my  back  ; 

15 


Den  I  says  to  my  ol'  ooman  ez  I  watches 

down  de  lane, 
"  Don't  you  so't  o'  reckon,  Lizy,  dat  we 

gwine  to  have  some  rain  ?  " 

"Go  on,  man,"  my  Lizy  answah,  "you 

cain't  fool  me,  not  a  bit,    . 
I   don't  see   no   rain   a-comin',   ef  you's 

wishin'  fu'  it,  quit ; 
Case  de  mo'  you  t'ink  erbout  it,  an'  de 

mo*  you  pray  an'  wish, 
W'y  de  rain  stay  'way  de  longah,  spechul 

ef  you  wants  to  fish." 

But  I  see  huh  pat  de  skillet,  an'  I  see  huh 

cas'  huh  eye 
Wid  a  kin'  o'  anxious  motion  to'ds  de 

da'kness  in  de  sky ; 
An'  I  knows  whut  she's  a-t'inkin',  dough 

she  tries  so  ha'd  to  hide. 
She's  a-sayin',  "  Wouldn't  catfish  now  tas'e 

monst'ous  bully,  fried  ?  " 

Den  de  clouds  git  black  an*  blackah,  an' 

de  thundah  'mence  to  roll, 
An'  de  rain,  it  'mence  a-fallin'.     Oh,  I's 

happy,  bless  my  soul ! 
Ez  I  look  at  dat  ol'  skillet,  an'  I  'magine  I 

kin  see 
Jes'  a  slew  o'  new-ketched  catfish  sizzlin' 

daih  fu'  huh  an'  me. 

'Tain't   no  use  to  go  a-ploughin',  fu'  de 

groun'  '11  be  too  wet, 
So  I  puts  out  fu'  de  big  house  at  a  moughty 

pace,  you  bet, 
An'  ol'  mastah  say,  "  Well,  Lishy,  ef  you 

t'ink  hit's  gwine  to  rain. 
Go  on  fishin',  hit's  de  weathah,  an'  I  'low 

we  cain't  complain." 

Talk  erbout  a  dahky  walkin'  wid  his  haid 

up  in  de  aih  ! 
Have  to  feel  mine  evah  minute  to  t>e  sho' 

I  got  it  daih; 
En'  de  win'  is  cuttin'  capahs  an'  a-lashin' 

thoo  de  trees, 
But  de  rain  keeps  on  a-singin'  blessed 

songs,  lak  "  Tek  yo'  ease." 


260 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


Wid  my  pole  erpon  my  shouldah  an'  my 

wo'm  can  in  my  han', 
I  kin  feel  de  fish  a-waitin'  w'en  I  strikes 

de  rivah's  san' ; 
Nevah  min',  you  ho'ny  scoun'els,  needn' 

swim  erroun'  an'  grin, 
I'll  be  grinnin'  in  a  minute  w'en  I  'mence 

to  haul  you  in. 

Wen  de  fish  begin  to  nibble,  an'  de  co'k 

begin  to  jump, 
I's  erfeahed  dat  dey'll  quit  bitin',  case  dey 

hyeah  my  hea't  go  "  thump," 
'Twell  de  co'k  go  way  down  undah,  an'  I 

raise  a  awful  shout, 
Ez  a  big  ol'  yallah  belly  comes  a  galli- 

vantin'  out. 

Needn't  wriggle,  Mistah  Catfish,  case  I 

got  you  jes'  de  same, 
You   been   eatin',  I'll   be   eatin',  an'  we 

needah  ain't  to  blame. 
But  you  needn't  feel  so  lonesome  fu'  I's 

th'owin'  out  to  see 
Ef  dey  ain't  some  of  yo'  comrades  fu'  to 

keep  you  company. 

Spo't,  dis  fishin' !  now  you  talkin',  w'y  dey 

ain't  no  kin'  to  beat; 
I  don'  keer  ef  I  is  soakin',  laigs,  an'  back, 

an'  naik,  an'  feet, 
It's  de  spo't  I's  lookin'  aftah.     Hit's  de 

pleasure  an'  de  fun, 
Dough  I  knows  dat  Lizy's  waitin'  wid  de 

skillet  w'en  I's  done. 


RESPONSE 

When  Phyllis  sighs  and  from  her  eyes 
The  light  dies  out ;  my  soul  replies 
With  misery  of  deep-drawn  breath, 
E'en  as  it  were  at  war  with  death. 

When  Phyllis  smiles,  her  glance  beguiles 
My  heart  through  love-lit  woodland  aisles, 
And  through  the  silence  high  and  clear, 
A  wooing  warbler's  song  I  hear. 

But  if  she  frown,  despair  comes  down, 
I  put  me  on  my  sack-cloth  gown  ; 
So  frown  not,  Phyllis,  lest  I  die, 
But  look  on  me  with  smile  or  sigh. 


A  LITTLE  CHRISTMAS  BASKET 

No  one  can  read  this  poem  without  ob- 
serving that  the  author  has  little  patience 
with  the  "  faith  "  that  does  not  prove  its 
existence  by  "  works."  He  knew  as  well, 
if  not  better,  than  any  poet  that  ever  lived 
the  practical  realization  of  Christmas  with- 
out money  or  fuel,  or  food,  and  he  knew 
also,  for  he  was  a  regular  attendant  at 
Sunday-school  and  church  in  boyhood 
days,  that  too  many  professing  Christians 
are  'prone  to  tell  the  poor  that  the  "  Lord 
will  provide  "  and  then  close  their  purses 
with  an  unpickable  lock. 

He  does  not  fail  in  this  remarkably  fine 
little  jingle  to  give  "  'ligion  "  its  due  mead 
of  respect,  but  it  is  very  human,  and  very 
natural  for  him  to  add  — 

"  But  I  t'ink  that  'ligion's  sweeter  w'en  it  kind  o' 

mixes  in 
Wid  a  little  Chrismus  basket  at  de  do'." 


De  win'  is  hollahin'  "  Daih  you  "  to  de 

shuttahs  an'  de  fiah, 
De   snow's    a-sayin'   "  Got   you "   to   de 

groun', 
Fu'  de    wintah  weathah's  come  widout 

a-askin'  ouah  desiah, 
An'  he's  laughin'  in  his  sleeve  at  whut 

he  foun' ; 
Fu'  dey  ain't  nobody   eady  wid  dey  fuel  er 

dey  food, 
An'  de  money  bag  look  timid  lak,  fu' 

sho', 
So  we  want  ouah   Chrismus  sermon,  but 

we'd  lak  it  ef  you  could 
Leave  a  little  Chrismus  basket  at  de  do'. 


Wha's   de  use   o'   tellin'   chillen  'bout  a 

Santy  er  a  Nick, 

An'  de  sto'ies  dat  a  body  allus  tol'  ? 
When  de  harf  is   gray  wid  ashes  an'  you 

hasn't  got  a  stick 
Fu'  to  warm  dem  when  dey  little  toes  is 

col'? 
Wha's  de  use  o'  preachin'  'ligion  to  a  man 

dat's  sta'ved  to  def, 

An'    a-tellin'    him    de     Mastah    will 
pu'vide  ? 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


261 


Ef  you  want  to  tech  his  fee.lin's,  save  yo' 

sermons  an'  yo'  bref, 
Tek    a  little   Chrismus   basket   by  yo' 
side. 

'Tain't  de  time  to  open  Bibles  an'  to  lock 

yo'  cellah  do', 
'Tain't  de  time  to  talk  o*  bein'  good  to 

men; 
Ef  you  want  to  preach  a  sermon  ez  you 

nevah  preached  befo', 
Preach  dat  sermon  wid  a  shoat  er  wid 

er  hen; 
Bein'  good  is  heap  sight  bettah  den  a-dal- 

lyin'  wid  sin, 
An'  dey  ain't  nobody  roun'  dat  knows  it 

mo', 
But  I  t'ink  dat  'ligion's  sweeter  w'en  it  kind 

o'  mixes  in 
Wid  a  little  Chrismus  basket  at  de  do'. 

MY  SWEET  BROWN  GAL 

W'en  de  clouds   is  hangin'  heavy  in  de 

sky, 
An'  de  win's's  a-taihin'  moughty  vig'rous 

by, 

I  don'  go  a-sighin'  all  erlong  de  way; 
I  des'  wo'k  a-waitin'  fu'  de  close  o'  day. 

Case   I   knows   w'en   evenin'  draps  huh 

shadders  down, 
I  won'  care  a  smidgeon  fu'  de  weathah's 

frown  ; 
Let  de  rain  go  splashin',  let  de  thundah 

raih, 
Dey's  a  happy  sheltah,  an'  I's  goin*  daih. 

Down  in  my  ol*  cabin  wa'm  ez  mammy's 

toas', 

'Taters  in  de  fiah  layin'  daih  to  roas' ; 
No  one   daih  to  cross  me,  got  no  talkin' 

pal, 
But  I's  got  de  comp'ny  o'  my  sweet  brown 

gal. 

So  I  spen's  my  evenin'  listenin'  to  huh 

sing, 
Lak  a  blessid  angel ;  how  huh  voice  do 

ring ! 

Sweetah  den  a  bluebird  flutterin*  erroun', 
Wen   he   sees    de    steamin'   o'   de    new 

ploughed  groun*. 


Den   I  hugs   huh  closah,  closah   to  my 

breas'. 
Needn't  sing,  my  da'lin',  tek  you'  hones' 

res'. 
Does  I  mean   Malindy,   Mandy,   Lize  er 

Sal? 
No,  I  means  my  fiddle — dat's  my   sweet 

brown  gal ! 


SPRING  FEVER 

Grass  commence  a-comin' 

Thoo  de  thawin'  groun', 
Evah  bird  dat  whistles 

Keepin'  noise  erroun' ; 
Cain't  sleep  in  de  mo'nin', 

Case  befo'  it's  light 
Bluebird  an'  de  robin 

Done  begun  to  fight. 

Bluebird  sass  de  robin, 

Robin  sass  him  back, 
Den  de  bluebird  scol'  him 

'Twell  his  face  is  black. 
Would  n'  min'  de  quoilin' 

All  de  mo'nin'  long, 
'Cept  it  wakes  me  early, 

Case  hit's  done  in  song. 

Anybody  wo'kin* 

Wants  to  sleep  ez  late 
Ez  de  folks  '11  'low  him, 

An'  I  wish  to  state 
(Co'se  dis  ain't  to  scattah, 

But  'twix'  me  an'  you), 
I  could  stan'  de  bedclothes, 

Kin'  o'  latah,  too. 

'Tain't  my  natchul  feelin', 

Dis  hyeah  mopin*  spell. 
I  Stan's  early  risin' 

Mos'ly  moughty  well ; 
But  de  ve'y  minute, 

I  feel  Ap'il's  heat, 
Bless  yo'  soul,  de  bedclothes 

Nevah  seemed  so  sweet. 

Mastah,  he's  a-scol'in', 
Case  de  han's  is  slow, 

All  de  hosses  balkin', 
Jes'  cain't  mek  'em  go. 


262 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


Don'  know  whut's  de  mattah, 

Hit's  a  funny  t'ing, 
Less'n  hit's  de  fevah 

Dat  you  gits  in  spring. 


TO  A  VIOLET  FOUND  ON  ALL 
SAINTS'  DAY 


This  poem  found  its  inspiration  in  the 
actual  finding  of  a  late-blowing  violet, 
found  by  the  poet,  under  his  library  win- 
dow at  Washington.  This  was  near  the 
time  when  Mr.  Dunbar's  domestic  tragedy 
occurred,  and  he  said  once  in  speaking  of 
the  incident : 

"  You  know  they  say 

"  '  Flowers  out  of  season, 
Trouble  without  reason,' 

and  I  really  believe  there  is  some  truth  in 
the  rhyme.  I  found  that  one  little  soli- 
tary violet  on  All  Saints'  Day  after  all  its 
sisters  had  long  been  dead,  and  " — with  a 
deep  sigh  and  a  quick  tear :  "  I  never 
had  much  real  happiness  after  that." 

Belated  wanderer  of  the  ways  of  spring, 
Lost  in   the    chill   of  grim    November 

rain, 
Would  I  could  read  the  message  that  you 

bring 
And  find  in  it  the  antidote  for  pain. 

Does  some  sad  spirit  out  beyond  the  day, 
Far  looking  to  the  hours  forever  dead, 

Send  you  a  tender  offering  to  lay 

Upon  the  grave  of  us,  the  living  dead  ? 

Or  does  some  brighter  spirit,  unforlorn, 
Send  you,  my  little  sister  of  the  wood, 

To  say  to  some  one  on  a  cloudful  morn, 
«•  Life  lives  through  death,  my  brother, 
all  is  good  "  ? 

\Yith  meditative  hearts  the  others  go 
The    memory  of  their    dead   to   dress 

anew, 
fiut,  sister  mine,  bide   here   that   I  may 

know, 

Life  grows,  through  death,  as  beautiful 
as  you. 


THE  COLORED  BAND 

W'en  de    colo'ed   ban'    comes    ma'chiri 

down  de  street, 
Don't  you  people  stan'   daih   starin' ;  HP 

yo'  feet ! 

Ain't  dey  playin'  ?    Hip,  hooray ! 
Stir  yo'  stumps  an*  clean  de  way, 
Fu*    de    music   dat   dey   mekin'    can't  be 
beat. 

Oh,    de   major    man's    a-swingin'  of  his 

stick, 
An'  de  pickaninnies   crowdin'  roun'  him 

thick ; 

In  his  go'geous  uniform, 
He's  de  lightnin'  of  de  sto'm, 
An'  de  little  clouds  erroun'  look  mighty 
slick. 

You  kin  hyeah  a  fine  perfo'mance  w'en  de 

white  ban's  serenade, 
An'   dey    play   dey    high-toned    music 

mighty  sweet, 
But   hit's   Sousa   played  in   rag-time,  an' 

hit's  Rastus  on  Parade, 
W'en  de  colo'ed   ban'  comes   ma'chin' 
down  de  street. 

W'en   de   colo'ed    ban'    comes    ma'chin' 

down  de  street 

You  kin  hyeah  de  ladies  all  erroun'  re- 
peat : 

"  Ain't  dey  handsome  ?  Ain't  dey  gran'  ? 
Ain't  dey  splendid  ?     Goodness,  Ian'  ! 
W'y  dey's  pu'fect  f  om  dey  fo'heads  to  dey 

feet !  " 
An'  sich   steppin'  to   de   music  down  de 

line, 
Tain't   de   music   by  itself  dat   meks  it 

fine, 

Hit's  de  walkin',  step  by  step, 
An'  de  keepin'  time  wid  «  Hep," 
Dat  it  mek  a  common  ditty  soun'  divine. 

Oh,   de  white   ban'  play  hits   music,  an' 

hit's  mighty  good  to  hyeah, 
An'  it  sometimes  leaves  a  ticklin'  in  yo' 

feet ; 
But  de  hea't  goes  into  bus'ness  fu'  to  he'p 

erlong  de  eah, 

W'en  de   colo'ed    ban'    goes   ma'chin' 
down  de  street. 


THE  COLORED  BAND 


MY  'LiAs  WENT  TO  WAH 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


265 


WHEN  DEY  'LISTED  COLORED 
SOLDIERS 

Dey   was   talkin'    in  de   cabin,  dey   wa 

talkin*  in  de  hall ; 
But     I    listened    kin'    o'    keerless,    not 

a-t'inkin'  'bout  it  all ; 
An*  on  Sunday,  too,    1   noticed,  dey  was 

whisp'rin'  mighty  much, 
Stan'in'  all  erroun'  de    roadside   w'en  dey 

let  us  out  o'  chu'ch. 

But  I  didn't  t'ink  erbout  it  'twell  de  mid- 
dle of  de  week, 
An'  my  'Lias  come  to  see  me,  an'  somehow 

he  couldn't  speak. 
Den  I  seed  all  in  a  minute  whut  he'd  come 

to  see  me  for ;  — 
Dey  had  'listed  colo'ed  scjers,  an'  my  'Lias 

gwine  to  wah. 

Oh,  I  hugged  him,  an'  I  kissed  him,  an'  I 

baiged  him  not  to  go; 
But  he  tol'  me  dat  his  conscience,  hit  was 

callin'  to  him  so, 
An'  he  couldn't  baih  to  lingah  w'e»he  had 

a  chanst  to  fight 
For  de  freedom  dey  had  ,,gin  him  an'  de 

glory  of  de  right. 
So  he  kissed  me,  an'  he  lef  me,  w'en  I'd 

p'omised  to  be  true  ; 
An'  dey  put  a  knapsack  on  him,  an'  a  coat 

all  colo'ed  blue. 
So  I  gin  him  pap's  ol'  Bible  f'om  de  bottom 

of  de  draw', — 
W'en   dey  'listed   colo'ed   sojers   an'   my 

'Lias  went  to  wah. 

But  I  fought  of  all  de  weary  miles  dat  he 

would  have  to  tramp, 
An'  I  couldn't  be  contented  w'en  dey  tuk 

him  to  de  camp. 
W'y   my  hea't  nigh    broke    wid   grievin' 

'twell  I  seed  him  on  de  street; 
Den  I  felt  lak   I  could  go  an'  th'ow  my 

body  at  his  feet. 
For  his  buttons  was  a-shinin',  an'  his  face 

was  shinin',  too, 
An'  he  looked  so  strong  an'  mighty  in  his 

coat  o'  sojer  blue, 
Dat  I  hollahed,  «  Step  up,  manny,"  dough 

my  th'oat  was  so'  an'  raw, — 
W'en  dey  'listed  colo'ed  sojers  an'  my  'Lias 

went  to  wah. 


Ol'  Mis'  cried  w'en  mastah  lef  huh,  young 

Miss  mou'nedhuh  brothah  Ned, 
An'   I   didn't  know  dey  feelin's  is  de  ve'y 

wo'ds  dey  said 
W'en  I  tol'  'em  Iwasso'y.     Dey  had  done 

gin  up  dey  all; 
But  dey  only  seemed  mo'  proudah  dat  dey 

men  had  hyeahd  de  call. 
Bofe   my  mastahs  went  in  gray  suits,  an'  I 

loved  de  Yankee  blue, 
But  I  fought  dat  I  could  sorrer  for  de  losin' 

of  'em  too ; 
But  I  couldn't,  for  I  didn't  know  de  ha'f 

o'  whut  I  saw, 
'Twell  dey  'listed  colo'ed  sojers  an'  my 

'Lias  went  to  wah. 

Mastah  Jack  come  home  all  sickly ;  he  was 

broke  for  life,  dey  said; 
An'  dey  let*  my  po'  young  mastah  some'r's 

on  de  roadside, — dead. 
W'en  de  women  cried  an'  mou'ned  'em,  I 

could  feel  it  thoo  an'  thoo, 
For  I  had  a  loved  un  fightin'  in  de  way  o' 

dangah,  too. 
Den  dey  tol'  me  dey  had  laid  him  some'r's 

way  down  souf  to  res', 
Wid  de  flag  dat  he  had  fit  for  shinin'  daih 

acrost  his  breas'. 
Well,  I  cried,  but  den  I  reckon  dat's  whut 

Gawd  had  called  him  for, 
W'en  dey  'listed  colo'ed  sojers  an'  my  'Lias 

went  to  wah. 


INSPIRATION 

At  the  gulden  gate  of  song 
Stood  I,  knocking  all  day  long, 
But  the  Angel,  calm  and  cold, 
Still  refused  and  bade  me,  "  Hold." 

Then  a  breath  of  soft  perfume, 
Then  a  light  within  the  gloom ; 
Thou,  Love,  earnest  to  my  side, 
And  the  gates  flew  open  wide. 

Long  I  dwelt  in  this  domain, 
Knew  no  sorrow,  grief,  or  pain ; 
Now  you  bid  me  forth  and  free, 
Will  you  shut  these  gates  on  me  ? 


266 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


SONG 

Wintah,  summah,  snow  er  shine, 

Hit's  all  de  same  to  me, 
Ef  only  I  kin  call  you  mine, 

An'  keep  you  by  my  knee. 

Ha'dship,  frolic,  grief  er  caih, 

Content  by  night  an'  day, 
Ef  only  I  kin  see  you  whaih 

You  wait  beside  de  way. 

Livin',  dyin',  smiles  er  teahs, 

My  soul  will  still  be  free, 
Ef  only  thoo  de  comin'  yeahs 

You  walk  de  worl'  wid  me. 

Bird-song,  breeze-wail,  chune  er  moan 
What  puny  t'ings  dey'll  be, 

Ef  w'en  I's  seemin'  all  erlone, 
I  knows  yo'  hea't's  wid  me. 


MY  LADY  OF  CASTLE  GRAND 

Gray  is  the  palace  where  she  dwells, 

Grimly  the  poplars  stand 
There  by  the  window  where  she  sits, 

My  Lady  of  Castle  Grand. 

There  does  she  bide  the  livelong  day, 

Grim  as  the  poplars  are, 
Ever  her  gaze  goes  reaching  out, 

Steady,  but  vague  and  far. 

Bright  burn  the  fires  in  the  castle  hall, 

Brightly  the  fire-dogs  stand; 
But  cold  is  the  body  and  cold  the  heart 

Of  my  Lady  of  Castle  Grand. 

Blue  are  the  veins  in  her  lily-white  hands, 
Blue  are  the  veins  in  her  brow  ; 

Thin  is  the  line  of  her  blue  drawn  lips, 
Who  would  be  haughty  now  ? 

Pale  is  the  face  at  the  window-pane, 
Pale  as  the  pearl  on  her  breast, 

"  Roderick,  love,  wilt  come  again  ? 
Fares  he  to  east  or  west  ?  " 

The  shepherd  pipes  to  the  shepherdess, 
*  The  bird  to  his  mate  in  the  tree, 
And  ever  she  sighs  as  she  hears  their  song, 
"  Nobody  sings  for  me." 


The  scullery  maids  have  swains  enow 
Who  lead  them  the  way  of  love, 

But  lonely  and  loveless  their  mistress  sits 
At  her  window  up  above. 

Loveless  and  lonely  she  waits  and  waits, 
The  saddest  in  all  the  land  ; 

Ah,  cruel  and  lasting  is  love-blind  pride, 
My  Lady  of  Castle  Grand. 


DRIZZLE 

Hit's  been  drizzlin'  an'  been  sprinklin1, 

Kin'  o'  techy  all  day  long. 
I  ain't  wet  enough  fu'  toddy, 

I's  too  damp  to  raise  a  song, 
An'  de  case  have  set  me  t'inkin', 

Dat  dey's  folk  des  lak  de  rain, 
Dat  goes  drizzlin'  w'en  dey's  talkin', 

An'  won't  speak  out  flat  an'  plain. 


Ain't  you  nevah  set  an'  listened 

At  a  body  'splain  his  min'  ? 
W'en  de  t'oughts  dey  keep  on  drappin' 

Wasn't  big  enough  to  fin'  ? 
Dem's  whut  I  call  drizzlin'  people, 

Othahs  call  'em  mealy  mouf, 
But  de  fust  name  hits  me  bettah, 

Case  dey  nevah  tech  a  drouf. 


Dey  kin  talk  from  hyeah  to  yandah, 

An'  f 'om  ya*idah  hyeah  ergain, 
An'  dey  don'  mek  no  mo'  'pression, 

Den  dis  powd'ry  kin'  o'  rain. 
En  yo'  min'  is  dry  ez  cindahs, 

Er  a  piece  o'  kindlin'  wood, 
'Tain't  no  use  a-talkin'  to  'em, 

Fu'  dey  drizzle  ain't  no  good. 


Gimme  folks  dat  speak  out  nachul, 

Whut'll  say  des  whut  dey  mean, 
Whut  don't  set  dey  wo'ds  so  skimpy 

Dat  you  got  to  guess  between. 
I  want  talk  des'  lak  de  showahs 

Whut  kin  wash  de  dust  erway, 
Not  dat  sprinklin'  convusation, 

Dat  des  drizzle  all  de  day. 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


267 


DE  CRITTERS'  DANCE 

Ain't  nobody  nevah  tol'  you  not  a  wo'd 

a-tall, 
'Bout  de  time  dat  all  de  critters  gin  dey 

fancy  ball  ? 
Some  folks  tell  it  in  a  sto'y,  some  folks 

sing  de  rhyme, 
'Peahs  to  me  you  ought  to  hyeahed  it,  case 

hit's  ol'  ez  time. 

Well,  de  critters  all  was  p'osp'ous,  now 

would  be  de  chance 
Fu'  to  tease  ol'  Pa'son  Hedgehog,  givin'  of 

a  dance ; 
Case,  you  know,  de  critter's  preachah  was 

de  stric'est  kin', 
An'  he  nevah  made  no  'lowance  fu'  de 

frisky  min'. 

So  dey  sont  dey  inbitations,  Raccoon  writ 

'em  all, 
"Dis  hyeah  note  is  to  inbite  you  to  de 

Fancy  Ball ; 
Come  erlong  an'  bring  yo'  ladies,  bring  yo' 

chillun  too, 
Put  on  all  yo'  bibs  an'  tuckahs,  show  whut 

you  kin  do." 

Wen  de  night  come,  dey  all  gathahed  in  a 
place  dey  knowed, 

Fu'  enough  erway  f'om  people,  nigh 
enough  de  road, 

All  de  critters  had  ersponded,  Hop-Toad 
up  to  Baih, 

An'  I's  hyeah  to  tell  you,  Pa'son  Hedge- 
hog too,  was  daih. 

Well,  dey  talked  an'  made  dey  'bejunce, 

des  lak  critters  do, 
An'  dey  walked  an'  p'omenaded  'roun'  an' 

thoo  an' thoo ; 
Jealous  ol'  Mis'  Fox,  she  whispah,  "  See 

Mis'  Wildcat  daih, 
Ain't  hit  scan'lous,  huh  a-comin'  wid  huh 

shouldahs  baih  ?  " 

Ol'  man  Tu'tle  wasn't  honin'  fu'  no  dancin' 

tricks, 
So  he  stayed   by  ol'  Mis'  Tu'tle,  talkin' 

politics; 


Den  de  ban*  hit  'mence  a-playin'  critters 

all  to  place, 
Fou'  ercross,  an'  fou'  stan'  sideways,  smilin' 

face  to  face. 


'Fessah  Frog,  he  play  de  co'net,  Cricket 

play  de  fife, 
Slews    o'  Grasshoppahs  a-fiddlin'  lak  to 

save  dey  life ; 
Mistah  Crow,  he  call  de  figgers,  settin'  in 

a  tree, 
Huh,  uh !  how  dose  critters  sasshayed  was 

a  sight  to  see. 

Mistah  Possom  swing  Mis'  Rabbit  up  an' 

down  de  flo', 
Ol'  man  Baih,  he  ain't  so  nimble,  an'  it 

mek  him  blow ; 
Raccoon  dancin'  wid  Mis'  Squ'il  squeeze 

huh  little  han', 
She  say,  "  Oh,  now  ain't  you  awful,  quit  it, 

goodness  Ian' ! " 

Pa'son  Hedgehog  groanin'  awful  at  his 

converts'  shines, 
'Dough  he  peepin'  thoo  his  fingahs  at  dem 

movin*  lines, 
'Twell  he  cain't  set  still  no  longah  w'en  de 

fiddles  sing, 
Up  he  jump,  an'  bless  you,  honey,  cut  de 

pigeon-wing. 

Well,  de  critters  lak  to  fainted  jes*  wid  dey 

su'prise, 
Sistah  Fox,  she  vowed  she  wasn't  gwine 

to  b'lieve  huh  eyes ;   • 
But  dey   couldn't   be   no  'sputin'  'bout  it 

any  mo' : 
Pa'son  Hedgehog  was  a-cape'in'  all  erroun' 

de  flo'. 

Den  dey  all  jes'  capahed  scan'lous  case 

dey  didn't  doubt, 
Dat  dey   still   could  go  to  meetin';  who 

could  tu'n  'em  out  ? 
So  wid  dancin'  an*  uligion,  dey  was  in  de 

fol', 
Fu'  a-dancin'  wid  de  Pa'son  couldn't  hu't 

de  soul. 


268 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


LINCOLN 

Hurt  was  the  nation  with  a  mighty  wound, 
And  all  her  ways  were  filled  with  clam'- 

rous  sound. 
Wailed  loud  the  South  with  unremitting 

grief, 
And  wept  the  North  that  could  not  find 

relief. 
Then  madness  joined  its  harshest  tone  to 

strife  : 

A  minor  note  swelled  in  the  song  of  life. 
Till,  stirring  with  the  love  that  filled  his 

breast, 

But  still,  unflinching  at  the  right's  behest, 
Grave  Lincoln  came,  strong  handed,  from 

afar, 

The  mighty  Homer  of  the  lyre  of  war. 
'Twas  he  who   bade  the  raging  tempest 

cease, 
Wrenched  from  his  harp  the  harmony  of 

peace, 
Muted  the  strings  that  made  the  discord, — 

Wrong, 

And  gave  his  spirit  up  in  thund'rous  song. 
Oh,  mighty  Master  of  the  mighty  lyre, 
Earth  heard  and  trembled  at  thy  strains  of 

fire: 
Earth  learned  of  thee  what  Heav'n  already 

knew, 
And  wrote  thee  down  among  her  treasured 

few. 


ENCOURAGEMENT 

Who  dat  knockin'  at  de  do'  ? 
Why,  Ike  Johnson, — yes,  fu'  sho  ! 
Come  in,  Ike.     I's  mighty  glad 
You  come  down.     I  t'ought  you's  mad 
At  me  'bout  de  othah  night, 
An'  was  stayin'  'way  fu'  spite. 
Say,  now,  was  you  mad  fu'  true 
W'en  I  kin'  o'  laughed  at  you  ? 
Speak  up,  Ike  an'  'spress  yo'se'f. 

Tain't  no  use  a-lookin'  sad, 

An'  a-mekin'  out  you's  mad ; 

Ef  you's  gwine  to  be  so  glum, 

Wondah  why  you  evah  come. 

I  don't  lak  nobidy  'roun' 

Dat  jes*  shet  dey  mouf  an'  frown, — 

Oh,  now,  man,  don't  act  a  dunce  1 


Cain't  you  talk  ?     I  toP  you  once, 
Speak  up,  Ike,  an'  'spress  yo'se'f. 

Wha'd  you  come  hyeah  fu'  to-night  ? 
Body'd  t'ink  yo'  haid  ain't  right. 
I's  done  all  dat  I  kin  do, — 
Dressed  perticler,  jes'  fu'  you ; 
Reckon  I'd  'a'  bettah  wo' 
My  ol'  ragged  calico. 
Aftah  all  de  pains  I's  took, 
Cain't  you  tell  me  how  I  look  ? 
Speak  up,  Ike,  an'  'spress  yo'se'f. 

Bless  my  soul !     I  'mos'  fu'got 
Tellin'  you  'bout  Tildy  Scott. 
Don't  you  know,  come  Thu'sday  night, 
She  gwine  ma'y  Lucius  White  ? 
Miss  Lize  say  I  allus  wuh 
Heap  sight  laklier  'n  huh; 
An'  she'll  git  me  somep'n  new, 
Ef  I  wants  to  ma'y  too. 
Speak  up,  Ike,  an*  'spress  yo'se'f. 

I  could  ma'y  in  a  week, 
Ef  de  man  I  wants  'ud  speak. 
Tildy's  presents  '11  be  fine, 
But  dey  wouldn't  ekal  mine. 
Him  whut  gits  me  fu'  a  wife 
'LI  be  proud,  you  bet  yo'  life. 
I's  had  offers;  some  ain't  quit; 
But  I  hasn't  ma'ied  yit ! 

Speak  up,  Ike,  an'  'spress  yo'se'f. 

Ike,  I  loves  you, — yes,  I  does ; 
You's  my  choice,  and  allus  was. 
Laffin'  at  you  ain't  no  harm. — 
Go  'way,  dahky,  whah's  yo'  arm  ? 
Hug  me  closer — dah,  dat's  right ! 
Wasn't  you  a  awful  sight, 
Havin'  me  to  baig  you  so? 
Now  ax  whut  you  want  to  know, — 
Speak  up,  Ike,  an'  'spress  yo'se'f! 

THE  BOOGAH  MAN 

W'en  de  evenin'  shadders 

Come  a-glidm'  down, 
Fallin'  black  an'  heavy 

Ovah  hill  an'  town, 
Ef  you  listen  keerful, 

Keerful  ez  you  kin, 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


269 


So's  you  boun'  to  notice 
Des  a  drappin'  pin  ; 

Den  you'll  hyeah  a  funny 
Soun'  ercross  de  Ian' ; 

Lay  low  ;  dat's  de  callin* 
Of  de  Boogah  Man  ! 


Woo-oo,  woo-oo  ! 

Hyeah  him  cz  he  go  erlong  de  way  ; 
Woo-oo,  woo-oo  ! 

Don1  you  wish  de  night  'udtu'n  today  ? 
Woo-oo,  woo-oo  ! 

Hide  yo1  little  peepers  'hind yd*  han* ; 
Woo-oo,  woo-oo  ! 

Callin1  of  de  Boogah  Man. 


Wen  de  win's  a-shiverin' 

Thoo  de  gloomy  lane, 
An'  dey  comes  de  patterin* 

Of  de  evenin'  rain, 
Wen  de  owl's  a-hootin', 

Out  daih  in  de  wood, 
Don'  you  wish,  my  honey, 

Dat  you  had  been  good  ? 
'Tain't  no  use  to  try  to 

Snuggle  up  to  Dan ; 
Bless  you,  dat's  de  callin' 

Of  de  Boogah  Man  ! 


Ef  you  loves  yo*  mammy, 

An'  you  min's  yo'  pap, 
Ef  you  nevah  wriggles 

Outen  Sukey's  lap; 
Ef  you  says  yo'  "  Lay  me  " 

Evah  single  night 
'Fo'  dey  tucks  de  kivers 

An'  puts  out  de  light, 
Den  de  rain  kin  pattah, 

Win'  blow  lak  a  fan, 
But  you  need  n'  bothah 

'Bout  de  Boogah  Man  ! 


THE  WRAITH 

Ah  me,  it  is  cold  and  chill, 

And  the  fire  sobs  low  in  the  grate, 
While  the  wind  rides  by  on  the  hill, 

And  the  logs  crack  sharp  with  hate. 


And  she,  she  is  cold  and  sad 

As  ever  the  sinful  are, 
But  deep  in  my  heart  I  am  glad 

For  my  wound  and  the  coming  scar. 

Oh,  e"er  the  wind  rides  by 

And  ever  the  rain-drops  grieve ; 

But  a  voice  like  a  woman's  sigh 
Says,  "  Do  you  believe,  believe  ?  " 

Ah,  you  were  warm  and  sweet, 
Sweet  as  the  May  days  be  ; 

Down  did  I  fall  at  your  feet, 
Why  did  you  hearken  to  me  ? 

Oh,  the  logs  they  crack  and  whine, 
And  the  water  drops  from  the  eaves ; 

But  it  is  not  rain  but  brine 

Where  my  dead  darling  grieves. 

And  a  wraith  sits  by  my  side, 

A  spectre  grim  and  dark; 
Are  you  gazing  here  open-eyed 

Out  to  the  lifeless  dark  ? 

But  ever  the  wind  rides  on, 

And  we  sit  close  within  ; 
Out  of  the  face  of  the  dawn, 

I  and  my  darling, — sin. 


SILENCE 

This  stanza  was  written  on  the  same 
day  as  his  "  The  Poet,"  and  doubtless 
voices  a  feeling  upon  the  part  of  the  author 
that  perhaps  after  all  as  Riley  once  wrote 
"  The  silent  song  is  best,  and  the  unsung 
worthiest !  " 

In  its  more  intimate  application  every 
reader  will  be  led  to  think  of  some  friend 
who  does  not  misconstrue  a  silent  mood, 
and  who  understands  that  there  are  times 
when  the  silence,  lying  between  two 
human  souls  "  is  full  of  the  deepest 
speech." 

Tis  better  to  sit  here  beside  the  sea, 
Here  on  the  spray-kissed  beach, 

In  silence,  that  between  such  friends  as  we 
Is  full  of  deepest  speech. 


270 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


WHIP-POOR-WILL  AND  KATY-DID 

Slow  de  night's  a-fallin', 
An'  I  hyeah  de  callin' 

Out  erpon  de  lonesome  hill ; 
Soun'  is  moughty  dreary, 
Solemn-lak  an'  skeery, 

Sayin'  fu'  to  «  whip  po'  Will." 
Now  hit's  moughty  tryin', 
Fu'  to  hyeah  dis  cryin', 

'Deed  hit's  mo'  den  I  kin  stan* ; 
Sho'  wid  all  our  slippin', 
Dey's  enough  of  whippin' 

'Dout  a  bird  a'visin'  any  man. 


In  de  moons  o'  summah 
Dey's  anothah  hummah 

Sings  anothah  song  instid ; 
An'  his  th'oat's  a-swellin' 
Wid  de  joy  o'  tellin', 

But  he  says  dat  "  Katy  did." 
Now  I  feels  onsuhtain ; 
Won't  you  raise  de  cu'tain 

Ovah  all  de  ti'ngs  dat's  hid  ? 
W'y  dat  feathahed  p'isen 
Goes  erbout  a'visin' 

Whippin'  Will  w'en  Katy  did  ? 


TO  A  CAPTIOUS  CRITIC 

Dear  critic,  who  my  lightness  so  deplores, 
Would  I  might  study  to  be  prince  of  bores, 
Right  wisely  would  I  rule  that  dull  es- 
tate — 
But,  sir,  I  may  not,  till  you  abdicate. 


'LONG  TO'DS  NIGHT 

Daih's  a  moughty  soothin'  feelin* 
Hits  a  dahky  man, 

'Long  to'ds  night. 
W'en  de  row  is  mos'  nigh  ended, 
Den  he  stops  to  fan, 
'Long  to'ds  night. 

De  blue  smoke  fom  his  cabin  is  a-callin' 
to  him,  «  Come ; " 


He  smell  de  bacon  cookin',  an'  he  hyeah 

de  fiah  hum ; 
An'   he   'mence   to  sing,  'dough   wo'kin' 

putty  nigh  done  made  him  dumb, 
'Long  to'ds  night. 


Wid  his  hoe  erpon  his  shouldah 
Den  he  goes  erlong, 
'Long  to'ds  night. 
An'  he  keepin'  time  a-steppin' 
Wid  a  little  song, 

'Long  to'ds  night. 
De  restin'-time's  a-comin',  an'  de  time  to 

drink  an'  eat; 
A  baby's  toddlin'  to'ds  him  on  hits  little 

dusty  feet, 

An'  a-goin'  to'ds  his  cabin,  an'  his  suppah's 
moughty  sweet, 
'Long  to'ds  night. 


Daih  his  Ca'line  min'  de  kettle, 
Rufus  min'  de  chile, 
'Long  to'ds  night ; 
An'  de  sweat  roll  down  his  forred, 
Mixin'  wid  his  smile, 

'Long  to'ds  night. 
He  toss  his  piccaninny,  an'  he  hum  a  little 

chune ; 
De   wo'kin'  all    is   ovah,  an'   de   suppah 

comin*  soon ; 

De    wo'kin'    time's    Decembah,    but   de 
restin'  time  is  June, 
'Long  to'ds  night. 


Dey's  a  kin'  o'  doleful  feelin', 
Hits  a  tendah  place, 
'Long  to'ds  night ; 
Dey's  a  moughty  glory  in  him 
Shinin'  thoo  his  face, 
'Long  to'ds  night. 
De  cabin's  lak  de  big  house,  an'  de  fiah's 

lak  de  sun  ; 
His  wife  look  moughty  lakly,  an'  de  chile 

de  puttiest  one  ; 

W'y,  hit's  blessid,  jes'  a-livin'  w'en  a  body's 
wo'k  is  done. 

'Long  to'ds  night. 


HE  Toss  His  PICCANINNY 


SHE  DE  ONLY  Hoss  FU'  ME 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


273 


DAT  OL'  MARE  O'  MINE 

In  1899,  when  the  poet  was  compelled 
to  leave  Washington,  where  his  duties  as 
librarian  had  been  too  hard  for  him,  he 
and  his  wife  and  mother  went  to  Denver. 
Here  they  lived  in  a  cottage  near  the  city, 
and  Mr.  Dunbar  took  long  rides  for  his 
health.  For  this  purpose  he  purchased  a 
gray  mare,  and  soon  learned  to  love  the 
animal  devotedly.  Desiring  to  pay  a 
tribute  to  his  faithful  dumb  friend  he 
wrote  the  poem.  He  wrote  to  a  friend 
about  this  time,  that  he  sold  this  poem  for 
a  sum  equal  to  half  the  price  he  had  paid 
for  the  mare ! 

Want  to  trade  me,  do  you,  mistah  ?     Oh, 

well,  now,  I  reckon  not, 
W'y  you  couldn't  buy  my  Sukey  fu'  a 

thousan'  on  de  spot. 

Dat  oP  mare  o'  mine  ? 
Yes,  huh  coat  ah  long  an'  shaggy,  an*  she 

ain't  no  shakes  to  see  ; 
Dat's  a  ring-bone,  yes,  you  right,  suh,  an* 

she  got  a  on'ry  knee, 
But  dey  ain't  no  use  in  talkin',  she  de  only 

hoss  fu'  me, 

Dat  ol'  mare  o'  mine. 

Co'se,  I  knows  dat  Suke's  contra'y,  an' 
she  moughty  ap'  to  vex  ; 

But  you  got  to  mek  erlowance  fu'  de  na- 
ture of  huh  sex ; 

Dat  ol'  mare  o'  mine. 

Ef  you  pull  her  on  de  lef'  han';  she  plum 
'termined  to  go  right, 

A   cannon   couldn't   skeer  huh,   but   she 
boun'  to  tek  a  fright 

At  a  piece  o'  common  paper,  or  anyt'ing 
whut's  white, 

Dat  ol'  mare  o'  mine. 

W'en    my   eyes    commence    to   fail   me, 

dough,  I  trus'es  to  huh  sight, 
An'  she'll  tote  me  safe  an'  hones'  on  de 

ve'y  da'kes'  night, 

Dat  ol'  mare  o'  mine. 
Ef  I  whup  huh,  she  jes'  switch  huh  tail, 

an*  settle  to  a  walk, 
Ef  I  whup  huh  mo',  she  shek  huh  haid, 

an'  lak  ez  not,  she  balk. 


But  huh  sense  ain't  no  ways  lackin',  she 
do  evaht'ing  but  talk, 

Dat  or  mare  o'  mine. 

But  she  gentle  ez  a  lady  w'en  she  know 

huh  beau  kin  see, 
An*  she  sholy  got  mo'  gumption  any  day 

den  you  or  me, 

Dat  ol'  mare  o'  mine. 
She's  a  leetle  slow  a-goin',  an'  she  moughty 

ha'd  to  sta't, 
But  we's   gittin'   ol'   togathah,   an'  she's 

closah  to  my  hea't, 
An'  I  doesn't  reckon,  mistah,  dat  she'd 

sca'cely  keer  to  pa't ; 

Dat  ol'  mare  o'  mine. 

W'y  I  knows  de  time  dat  cidah's  kin'  o' 

muddled  up  my  haid, 
Ef  it  hadn't   been   fu'   Sukey  hyeah,   I 

reckon  I'd  been  daid  ; 

Dat  ol'  mare  o'  mine. 
But  she  got  me  in  de  middle  o'  de  road 

an'  tuk  me  home, 
An'  she  wouldn't  let  me  wandah,  ner  she 

wouldn't  let  me  roam, 
Dat's  de  kin'  o'  hoss  to  tie  to  w'en  you's 

seed  de  cidah's  foam, 

Dat  ol'  mare  o'  mine. 

You  kin  talk  erbout  yo'  heaven,  you  kin 
talk  erbout  yo'  hell, 

Dey  is  people,  dey  is  bosses,  den  dey's  cat- 
tle, den  dey's — well  — 
Dat  ol'  mare  o'  mine  ; 

She  de  beatenes'  t'ing  dat  evah  struck  de 
medders  o'  de  town, 

An'  aldough  huh  haid  ain't  fittin'  fu'  to 
waih  no  golden  crown, 

D'  ain't  a  blessed  way  fu'  Petah  fu'  to 
tu'n  my  Sukey  down, 

Dat  ol'  mare  o'  mine. 


A  GRIEVANCE 

W'en  de  snow's  a-fallin* 
An'  de  win'  is  col'. 

Mammy  'mence  a-callin', 
Den  she  'mence  to  scoP, 

"  Lucius  Lishy  Brackett, 
Don't  you  go  out  do's, 


274 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


Button  up  yo'  jacket, 
Les'n  you'll  git  froze." 

I  sit  at  de  windah 

Lookin'  at  de  groun', 
Nuffin  nigh  to  hindah, 

Mammy  ain'  erroun' ; 
Wish't  she  wouldn'  mek  me 

Set  down  in  dis  chaih  ; 
Pshaw,  it  wouldn't  tek  me 

Long  to  git  some  aih. 

So  I  jump  down  nimble 

Ez  a  boy  kin  be, 
Dough  I's  all  a-trimble 

Feahed  some  one'll  see ; 
Bet  in  a  half  a  minute 

I  fly  out  de  do' 
An'  I's  knee-deep  in  it, 

Dat  dah  blessed  snow. 

Den  I  hyeah  a  pattah 

Come  acrost  de  flo'. 
Den  dey  comes  a  clattah 

At  de  cabin  do' ; 
An'  my  mammy  holler 

Spoilin'  all  my  joy, 
"  Come  in  f 'om  dat  waller, 

Don't  I  see  you,  boy  ?  " 

Wen  de  snow's  a-sievin' 

Down  ez  sof '  ez  meal, 
Whut's  de  use  o'  Jivin* 

'Cept  you  got  de  feel 
Of  de  stuff  dat's  fallin' 

'Roun'  an'  white  an'  damp, 
'Dout  some  one  a-callin', 

"  Come  in  hyeah,  you  scamp !  " 


DINAH  KNEADING  DOUGH 

I  have  seen  full  many  a  sight 
Born  of  day  or  drawn  by  night : 
Sunlight  on  a  silver  stream, 
Golden  lilies  all  a-dream, 
Lofty  mountains,  bold  and  proud, 
Veiled  beneath  the  lacelike  cloud  ; 
But  no  lovely  sight  I  know 
Equals  Dinah  kneading  dough. 


Brown  arms  buried  elbow-deep 
Their  domestic  rhythm  keep, 
As  with  steady  sweep  they  go 
Through  the  gently  yielding  dough. 
Maids  may  vaunt  their  finer  charms —• 
Naught  to  me  like  Dinah's  arms ; 
Girls  may  draw,  or  paint,  or  sew  — 
I  love  Dinah  kneading  dough. 

Eyes  of  jet  and  teeth  of  pearl, 
Hair,  some  say,  too  tight  a-curl ; 
But  the  dainty  maid  I  deem 
Very  near  perfection's  dream. 
Swift  she  works,  and  only  flings 
Me  a  glance— the  least  of  things. 
And  I  wonder,  does  she  know 
That  my  heart  is  in  the  dough  ? 

IN  THE  MORNING 

'Lias!  'Lias!  Bless  de  Lavvd  ! 
Don'  you  know  de  day's  erbroad? 
Ef  you  don'  git  up,  you  scamp, 
Dey'll  be  trouble  in  dis  camp. 
T'ink  I  gwine  to  let  you  sleep 
Wile  I  meks  yo'  boa'd  an'  keep  ? 
Dat's  a  putty  howdy-do  — 
Don'  you  hyeah  me,  'Lias — you  ? 

Bet  ef  I  come  crost  dis  flo' 
You  won'  fin'  no  time  to  sno*. 
Daylight  all  a-shinin'  in 
Wile  you  sleep — w'y  hit's  a  sin ! 
Ain't  de  can'le-light  enough 
To  bu'n  out  widout  a  snuff, 
But  you  go  de  mo'nin'  thoo 
Bu'nin'  up  de  daylight  too  ? 

'Lias,  don'  you  hyeah  me  call  ? 
No  use  tu'nin'  to'ds  de  wall ; 
I  kin  hyeah  dat  mattuss  squeak ; 
Don'  you  hyeah  me  w'en  I  speak  ? 
Dis  hyeah  clock  done  struck  off  six  — 
Ca'line,  bring  me  dem  ah  sticks! 
Oh,  you  down,  suh  ;  huh  !  you  down  — 
Look  hyeah,  don'  you  daih  to  frown. 

Ma'ch  yo'se'f  an'  wash  yo'  face, 
Don'  you  splattah  all  de  place  : 
I  got  somep'n  else  to  do, 
'Sides  jes'  cleanin'  aftah  you. 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


275 


Tek  dat  comb  an'  fix  yo'  haid  — 
Looks  jes'  lak  a  feddah  baid. 
Look  hyeah,  boy,  I  let  you  see 
You  sha'n't  roll  yo'  eyes  at  me. 

Come  hyeah  ;  bring  me  dat  ah  strap ! 
Boy,  I'll  whup  you  'twell  you  drap; 
You  done  felt  yo'se'f  too  strong, 
An'  you  sholy  got  me  wrong. 
Set  down  at  dat  table  thaih  ; 
Jes'  you  whimpah  ef  you  daih  ! 
Evah  mo'nin'  on  dis  place, 
Seem  lak  I  mus'  lose  my  grace. 

Fol'  yo'  han's  an'  bow  yo'  haid  — 

Wait  ontwell  de  blessin'  's  said  ; 

"  Lawd,  have  mussy  on  ouah  souls  — " 

(Don'  you  daih  to  tech  dem  rolls — ) 

"  Bless  de  food  we  gwine  to  eat  — " 

(You  set  still — I  see  yo'  feet ; 

You  jes'  try  dat  trick  agin  !) 

"  Gin  us  peace  an'  joy.     Amen !  " 


THE  POET 

These  eight  lines  tell  the  story  of  Paul 
Dunbar's  greatest  disappointment  in  con- 
nection with  his  literary  achievements. 
He  grew  tired  of  writing  jingles,  in  a 
broken  tongue,  but  the  heedless  world 
wanted  none  of  the  almost  fathomless 
language  poems,  which  reflected  the  real 
soul  of  the  poet.  As  the  sheen  of  tinsel 
pleases  the  eye  of  the  ragged  crowd  who 
seldom  see  pure  gold,  so  the  jingles,  the 
swing,  and  the  laughter  so  apparent  in 
Dunbar's  dialect  satisfied  the  majority  of 
readers — the  pure  gold  was  left  for  the 
thinking  few. 

He  sang  of  life,  serenely  sweet, 

With,  now  and  then,  a  deeper  note. 
From  some  high  peak,  nigh  yet  remote, 

He  voiced  the  world's  absorbing  beat. 

He  sang  of  love  when  earth  was  young, 
And  Love,  itself,  was  in  his  lays. 
But  ah,  the  world,  it  turned  to  praise 

A  jingle  in  a  broken  tongue. 


A  FLORIDA  NIGHT 

Win'  a-blowin'  gentle  so  de  san'  lay  low, 

San'  a  little  heavy  f 'om  de  rain, 
All  de  pa'ms  a-wavin'  an'  a-weavin'  slow, 

Sighin'  lak  a  sinnah-soul  in  pain. 
Alligator  grinnin'  by  de  ol'  lagoon, 
Mockin'-bird  a-singin'  to  de  big  full  moon, 
'Skeeter    go    a-skimmin'   to    his    fightin' 

chune 
(Lizy  Ann's  a-waitin'  in  de  lane  !). 

Moccasin  a-sleepin'  in  de  Cyprus  swamp ; 
Needn't  wake  de  gent'man,  not  fu'  me. 
Mule,  you  needn't  wake  him  w'en   you 

switch  an'  stomp, 
Fightin'  off  a  'skeeter  er  a  flea. 
Florida  is  lovely,  she's  de  fines'  Ian' 
Evah  seed  de  sunlight  f 'om  de  Mastah's 

han', 
'Ceptin'  fu'  de  varmints  an'  huh  fleas  an' 

san' 
An'  de  nights  w'en  Lizy  Ann  ain'  free. 

Moon's  a-kinder  shaddered  on  de  melon 
patch ; 

No  one  ain't  a-watchin'  ez  I  go. 
Climbin'  of  de  fence  so's  not  to  click  de 
latch 

Meks  my  gittin'  in  a  little  slow. 
Watermelon  smilin'  as  it  say,  "  I's  free ;  " 
Alligator  boomin',  but  I  let  him  be, 
Florida,  oh,  Florida's  de  Ian'  fu'  me  — 

(Lizy  Ann  a-singin'  sweet  an'  low). 


DIFFERENCES 

My  neighbor  lives  on  the  hill, 

And  I  in  the  valley  dwell, 
My  neighbor  must  look  down  on  me, 

Must  I  look  up  ? — ah,  well, 
My  neighbor  lives  on  the  hill, 

And  I  in  the  valley  dwell. 

My  neighbor  reads,  and  prays, 

And  I — I  laugh,  God  wot, 
And  sings  like  a  bird  when  the  grass  is 
green 

In  my  small  garden  plot ; 
But  ah,  he  reads  and  prays, 

And  I — I  laugh,  God  wot. 


276 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


His  face  is  a  book  of  woe, 

And  mine  is  a  song  of  glee  ; 
A  slave  he  is  to  the  great  "  They  say," 

But  I — I  am  bold  and  free ; 
No  wonder  he  smacks  of  woe, 

And  I  have  the  tang  of  glee. 

My  neighbor  thinks  me  a  fool, 
«'  The  same  to  yourself,"  say  I ; 

"  Why  take   your   books   and   take  your 

prayers, 
Give  me  the  open  sky ; " 

My  neighbor  thinks  me  a  fool, 
"  The  same  to  yourself,"  say  I. 


LONG  AGO 

De  ol'  time's  gone,  de  new  time's  hyeah 

Wid  all  hits  fuss  an'  feddahs ; 
I  done  fu'got  de  joy  an'  cheah 

We  knowed  all  kin's  o'  weddahs, 
I  done  fu'got  each  ol'-time  hymn 

We  ust  to  sing  in  meetin' ; 
I's  leahned  de  prah's,  so  neat  an'  trim, 

De  preachah  keeps  us  'peatin'. 

Hang  a  vine  by  de  chimney  side, 

An'  one  by  de  cabin  do' ; 
An'  sing  a  song  fu'  de  day  dat  died, 

De  day  of  long  ergo. 

My  youf,  hit's  gone,  yes,  long  ergo, 

An'  yit  .1  ain't  a-moanin' ; 
Hit's  fu'  somet'ings  I  ust  to  know 

I  set  to-night  a-honin'. 
De  pallet  on  de  ol'  plank  flo', 

De  rain  bar'l  und'  de  eaves, 
De  live  oak  'fo*  de  cabin  do', 

Whaih  de  night  dove  comes  an'  grieves. 

Hang  a  vine  by  de  chimney  side, 

An'  one  by  de  cabin  do' ; 
An'  sing  a  song  fu'  de  day  dat  died, 

De  day  of  long  ergo. 

I'd  lak  a  few  ol'  frien's  to-night 

To  come  an'  set  wid  me ; 
An'  let  me  feel  dat  ol'  delight 

I  ust  to  in  dey  glee. 
But  hyeah  we  is,  my  pipe  an'  me, 

Wid  no  one  else  erbout ; 


We  bofe  is  choked  ez  choked  kin  be, 
An'  bofe'll  soon  go  out. 

Hang  a  vine  by  de  chimney  side, 
An'  one  by  de  cabin  do' ; 

An'  sing  a  song  fu'  de  day  dat  died, 
De  day  of  long  ergo. 


A  PLANTATION  MELODY 

De  trees  is  bendin'  in  de  sto'm, 

De  rain  done  hid  de  mountain's  fo'm, 

I's  'lone  an'  in  distress. 
But  listen,  dah's  a  voice  I  hyeah, 
A-sayin'  to  me,  loud  an'  cleah, 

"  Lay  low  in  de  wildaness." 

De  lightnin'  flash,  de  bough  sway  low, 
My  po'  sick  hea't  is  trimblin'  so, 

It  hu'ts  my  very  breas'. 
But  him  dat  give  de  lightnin'  powah 
Jes'  bids  me  in  de  tryin'  howah 

"  Lay  low  in  de  wildaness." 

O  brothah,  w'en  de  tempes*  beat, 
An'  w'en  yo'  weary  head  an'  feet 

Can't  fin'  no  place  to  res', 
Jes'  membah  dat  de  Mastah's  nigh, 
An'  putty  soon  you'll  hyeah  de  cry, 

"  Lay  low  in  de  wildaness." 

O  sistah,  w'en  de  rain  come  down, 
An'  all  yo'  hopes  is  'bout  to  drown, 

Don't  trus'  de  Mastah  less. 
He  smilin'  w'en  you  t'ink  he  frown, 
He  ain'  gwine  let  yo'  soul  sink  down  — 

Lay  low  in  de  wildaness. 


A  SPIRITUAL 

De  'cession's  stahted  on  de  gospel  way, 
De  Capting  is  a-drawin'  nigh : 

Bettah  stop  a-foolin'  an'  a-try  to  pray ; 
LiP  up  yo'  haid  w'en  de  King  go  by! 

Oh,  sinnah  mou'nin*  in  de  dusty  road, 
Hyeah's  de  minute  fu'  to  dry  yo'  eye : 

Dey's  a  moughty  One  a-comin'  fu'  to  baih 

yo'  load ; 
LiP  up  yo'  haid  w'en  de  King  go-by ! 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


277 


Oh,    widder    weepin'     by    yo'    husban's 

grave, 

Hit's  bettah  fu'  to  sing  den  sigh  : 
Hyeah  come  de  Mastah  wid  de  powah  to 

save ; 
Lif '  up  yo'  haid  w'en  de  King  go  by ! 

Oh,  orphans  a-weepin'  lak  de  widder  do, 
An'  I  wish  you'd  tell  me  why : 

De  Mastah  is  a  mammy  an'  a  pappy  too ; 
Lif '  up  yo'  haid  w'en  de  King  go  by ! 


Oh,  Moses  sot  de  sarpint  in  de  wildahness 
W'en    de   chillun  had  commenced   to 

die: 
Some  'efused  to  look,  but  hit  cuohed  de 

res'; 
Lif  up  yo'  haid  w'en  de  King  go  by! 

Bow  down,  bow  'way  down, 

Bow  down, 
But  lif '  up  yo  haid  w'en  de  King  go  by! 


THE  MEMORY  OF  MARTHA 

Out  in  de  night  a  sad  bird  moans, 

An',  oh,  but  hit's  moughty  lonely; 
Times  I  kin  sing,  but  mos'  I  groans, 
Fu'  oh,  but  hit's  moughty  lonely ! 
Is  you  sleepin'  well  dis  evenin',  Marfy, 

deah? 
W'en  I  calls  you  f 'om  de  cabin,  kin  you 

hyeah  ? 

'Tain't  de  same  ol'  place  to  me, 
Nuffin'  's  lak  hit  used  to  be, 
W'en  I  knowed  dat  you  was  allus  some'ers 
near. 

Down  by  de  road  de  shadders  grows, 
An',  oh,  but  hit's  moughty  lonely ; 
Seem  lak  de  ve'y  moonlight  knows, 
An',  oh,  but  hit's  moughty  lonely ! 
Does  you  know,  I's  cryin'  fu'  you,  oh,  my 

wife  ? 
Does  you  know  dey  ain't  no  joy  no  mo'  in 

life  ? 

An'  my  only  t'ought  is  dis, 
Dat  I's  honin'  fu'  de  bliss 
Fu'  to  quit  dis  groun'  o*  worriment  an* 
strife. 


Dah  on  de  baid  my  banjo  lays, 

An',  oh,  but  hit's  moughty  lonely ; 
Can't  even  sta't  a  chune  o'  praise, 

An',  oh,  but  hit's  moughty  lonely  ! 
Oh,  hit's  moughty  slow  a  waitin'  hyeah 

below. 
Is  you  watchin'  fu'  me,  Marfy,  at  de  do'  ? 

Ef  you  is,  in  spite  o'  sin, 

Dey'll  be  sho'  to  let  me  in, 
W'en  dey  sees  yo'  face  a-shinin',  den  dey'll 
know. 


W'EN  I  GITS  HOME 

It's  moughty  tiahsome  lay  in'  'roun* 
Dis  sorrer-laden  earfly  groun', 
An'  oftentimes  I  thinks,  thinks  I, 
'Twould  be  a  sweet  t'ing  des  to  die, 
An'  go  'long  home. 

Home  whaih  de  frien's  I  loved'll  say, 
"  We've  waited  fu'  you  many  a  day, 
Come  hyeah  an'  res'  yo'se'f,  an'  know 
You's  done  wid  sorrer  an'  wid  woe, 
Now  you's  at  home." 

W'en  I  gits  home  some  blessid  day, 
I  'lows  to  th'ow  my  caihs  erway, 
An'  up  an'  down  de  shinin'  street, 
Go  singin'  sof  an'  low  an'  sweet, 
W'en  I  gits  home. 

I  wish  de  day  was  neah  at  han', 
I's  tiahed  of  dis  grievin'  Ian', 
I's  tiahed  of  de  lonely  yeahs, 
I  want  to  des  dry  up  my  teahs, 
An'  go  'long  home. 

Oh,  Mastah,  won't  you  sen*  de  call  ? 
My  frien's  is  daih,  my  hope,  my  all. 
I's  waitin'  whaih  de  road  is  rough, 
I  want  to  hyeah  you  say,  "  Enough, 
Ol'  man,  come  home  !  " 


"HOWDY,  HONEY,  HOWDY!" 

Do'  a-stan'in*  on  a  jar,  fiah  a-shinin'  thoo 
Ol'  folks   drowsin'    'roun'  de  place,  wide 

awake  is  Lou, 
W'en  I   tap,  she  answeh,  an'  I  see  huh 

'mence  to  grin, 


278 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


••  Howdy,  honey,  howdy,  won't  you  step 
right  in  ?  " 

Den  I  step  erpon  de  log  layin'  at  de  do', 
Bless  de  Lawd,  huh  mammy  an'  huh  pap's 

done  'menced  to  sno', 
Now's  de  time,  ef  evah,  ef  I's  gwine  to 

try  an'  win, 
"  Howdy,  honey,  howdy,  won't  you  step 

right  in  ?  " 


No  use  playin'  on  de  aidge,  trimblin'  on  de 

brink, 
Wen  a  body  love  a  gal,  tell  huh  whut  he 

t'ink ; 
Wen  huh  hea't  is  open  fu'  de  love  you 

gwine  to  gin, 
Pull  yo'se'f  togethah,  suh,  an'  step  right 

in. 


Sweetes'    imbitation    dat    a    body    evah 

hyeahed, 
Sweetah    den    de    music   of   a   love-sick 

mockin'-bird, 
Comin'  Pom  de  gal  you  loves  bettah  den 

yo'  kin, 
"  Howdy,  honey,  howdy,  won't  you  step 

right  in  ?  " 

At  de  gate  o'  heaven  w'en  de  storm  o'  life 

is  pas', 
'Spec'  I'll  be  a-stan'in',  'twell  de  Mastah 

say  at  las', 
"  Hyeah  he  stan'  all  weary,  but  he  winned 

his  fight  wid  sin. 
Howdy,   honey,  howdy,  won't   you   step 

right  in  ?  " 


THE  UNSUNG  HEROES 

A  song  for  the  unsung  heroes  who  rose  in 

the  country's  need, 
When  the  life  of  the  land  was  threatened 

by  the  slaver's  cruel  greed, 
For  the  men  who  came  from  the  corn-field, 

who  came  from  the  plough  and  the 

flail, 
Who  rallied  round  when  they  heard  the 

sound  of  the  mighty  man  of  the  rail. 


They  laid  them  down  in  the  valleys,  they 

laid  them  down  in  the  wood, 
And  the  world  looked  on  at  the  work  they 

did,  and  whispered,  "  It  is  good." 
They  fought  their  way  on  the  hillside,  they 

fought  their  way  in  the  glen, 
And   God   looked   down  on  their  sinews 

brown,  and  said,  ««  I  have  made  them 

men." 

They  went  to  the  blue   lines  gladly,  and 

the  blue  lines  took  them  in, 
And  the  men  who  saw  their  muskets'  fire 

thought  not  of  their  dusky  skin. 
The  gray  lines  rose  and  melted  beneath 

their  scathing  showers. 
And  they  said,  "  'Tis  true,  they  have  force 

to  do,  these  old  slave  boys  of  ours." 

Ah,  Wagner  saw  their  glory,  and  Pillow 
knew  their  blood, 

That  poured  on  a  nation's  altar,  a  sacrifi- 
cial flood. 

Port  Hudson  heard  their  war-cry  that 
smote  its  smoke-filled  air, 

And  the  old  free  fires  of  their  savage  sires 
again  were  kindled  there. 

They  laid  them  down  where  the  rivers  the 

greening  valleys  gem, 
And   the    song  of  the   thund'rous   cannon 

was  their  sole  requiem, 
And  the  great  smoke  wreath  that  mingled 

its  hue  with  the  dusky  cloud, 
Was  the  flag  that  furled  o'er  a  saddened 

world,  and  the  sheet  that  made  their 

shroud. 

Oh,  Mighty  God  of  the  Battles  who  held 

them  in  thy  hand, 
Who   gave    them    strength    through   the 

whole  day's  length,  to  fight  for  their 

native  land, 
They  are  lying  dead  on  the  hillsides,  they 

are  lying  dead  on  the  plain, 
And  we  have  not  fire  to  smite  the  lyre  and 

sing  them  one  brief  strain. 

Give,  thou,  some  seer  the  power  to  sing 

them  in  their  might, 
The  men  who  feared  the   master's  whip, 

but  did  not  fear  the  fight ; 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


279 


That  he  may  tell  of  their  virtues  as  min- 
strels did  of  old, 

Till  the  pride  of  face  and  the  hate  of  race 
grow  obsolete  and  cold. 

A  song  for  the  unsung  heroes  who  stood 

the  awful  test, 
When  the   humblest   host   that   the  land 

could   boast   went   forth  to  meet  the 

best; 
A  song  for  the  unsung  heroes  who  fell  on 

the  bloody  sod, 
Who  fought  their  way  from  night  to  day 

and  struggled  up  to  God. 

THE  POOL. 

By  the  pool  that  I  see  in  my  dreams,  dear 

love, 

I  have  sat  with  you  time  and  again ; 
And   listened   beneath   the   dank   leaves, 

dear  love, 
To  the  sibilant  sound  of  the  rain. 

And  the  pool,  it  is  silvery   bright,   dear 

love, 

And  as  pure  as  the  heart  of  a  maid, 
As  sparkling  and  dimpling,  it  darkles  and 

shines 
In  the  depths  of  the  heart  of  the  glade. 

But,  oh,  I've  a  wish  in  my  soul,  dear  love, 
(The  wish  of  a  dreamer,  it  seems), 

That  I  might  wash  free  of  my  sins,  dear 

love, 
In  the  pool  that  I  see  in  my  dreams. 

POSSESSION 

Whose  little  lady  is  you,  chile, 

Whose  little  gal  is  you  ? 
What's  de  use  o'  kiver'n  up  yo'  face  ? 

Chile,  dat  ain't  de  way  to  do. 
Lemme  see  yo'  little  eyes, 

Tek  yo'  little  han's  down  nice, 
Lawd,  you  wuff  a  million  bills, 

Huh  uh,  chile,  dat  ain't  yo'  price. 

Honey,  de  money  ain't  been  made 
Dat  dey  could  pay  fu'  you ; 

'Tain't  no  use  a-biddin' ;  you  too  high 
Fu'  de  riches'  Jap  er  Jew. 
16 


Lemme  see  you  smilin'  now, 
How  dem  teef  o'  yo'n  do  shine, 

An'  de  t'ing  dat  meks  me  laff 
Is  dat  all  o'  you  is  mine. 

How's  I  gwine  to  tell  you  how  I  feel, 

How's  I  gwine  to  weigh  yo'  wuff? 
Oh,  you  sholy  is  de  sweetes'  t'ing 

Walkin'  on  dis  blessed  earf. 
Possum  is  de  sweetes'  meat, 

Cidah  is  de  nices'  drink, 
But  my  little  lady-bird 

Is  de  bes'  of  all,  I  t'ink. 

Talk  erbout  'uligion  he'pin'  folks 

All  thoo  de  way  o'  life, 
Gin  de  res'  'uligion,  des'  gin  me 

You,  my  little  lady-wife. 
Den  de  days  kin  come  all  ha'd, 

Den  do  nights  kin  come  all  black, 
Des'  you  tek  me  by  de  han', 

An'  I'll  stumble  on  de  track. 

Stumble  on  de  way  to  Gawd,  my  chile, 

Stumble  on,  an'  mebbe  fall ; 
But  I'll  keep  a-trottin',  while  you  lead 
on, 

Pickm'  an'  a-trottin',  dat's  all. 
Hoi*  me  mighty  tight,  dough,  chile, 

Fu'  hit's  rough  an'  rocky  Ian', 
Heaben's  at  de  en',  I  know, 

So  I's  leanin'  on  yo'  han'. 


THE  OLD  FRONT  GATE 

W'en  daih's  chillun  in  de  house, 

Dey  keep  on  a-gittin'  tall ; 
But  de  folks  don'  seem  to  see 

Dat  dey's  growin'  up  at  all, 
'Twell  dey  fin'  out  some  fine  day 

Dat  de  gals  has  'menced  to  grow, 
W'en  dey  notice  as  dey  pass 

Dat  de  front  gate's  saggin'  low. 

W'en  de  hinges  creak  an'  cry, 
An'  de  bahs  go  slantin'  down, 

You  km  reckon  dat  hit's  time 
Fu'  to  cas'  yo'  eye  erroun', 

'Cause  daih  ain't  no  'sputin'  dis, 

Hit's  de  trues'  sign  to  show 


280 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


Dat  daih's  cou'tin'  goin'  on 

Wen  de  ol'  front  gate  sags  low. 

Oh,  you  grumble  an'  complain, 

An'  you  prop  dat  gate  up  right ; 
But  you  notice  right  nex'  day 

Dat  hit's  in  de  same  ol'  plight. 
So  you  fin'  dat  hit's  a  rule, 

An*  daih  ain'  no  use  to  blow, 
Wen  de  gals  is  growin'  up, 

Dat  de  front  gate  will  sag  low. 

Den  you  t'ink  o'  yo'  young  days, 

Wen^ou  cou'ted  Sally  Jane, 
An'  you  so't  o'  feel  ashamed 

Fu'  to  grumble  an'  complain, 
'Cause  yo'  ricerlection  says, 

An'  you  know  hits  wo'ds  is  so, 
Dat  huh  pappy  had  a  time 

Wid  his  front  gate  saggin*  low. 

So  you  jes'  looks  on  an'  smiles 

At  'em  leanin'  on  de  gate, 
Tryin'  to  t'ink  whut  he  kin  say 

Fu'  to  keep  him  daih  go  late, 
But  you  lets  dat  gate  erlone, 

Fu'  yo'  'sperunce  goes  to  show, 
'Twell  de  gals  is  ma'ied  off, 

It  gwine  keep  on  saggin'  low. 


DIRGE  FOR  A  SOLDIER 

In  the  east  the  morning  comes, 
Hear  the  rollin'  of  the  drums 

On  the  hill. 

But  the  heart  that  beat  as  they  beat 
In  the  battle's  raging  day  heat 

Lieth  still. 

Unto  him  the  night  has  come, 
Though  they  roll  the  morning  drum. 

What  is  in  the  bugle's  blast  ? 
It  is :     "  Victory  at  last ! 

Now  for  rest." 

But,  my  comrades,  come  behold  him 
Where  our  colors  now  enfold  him, 

And  his  breast 

Bares  no  more  to  meet  the  blade, 
But  lies  covered  in  the  shade. 


What  a  stir  there  is  to-day  ! 
They  are  laying  him  away 

Where  he  fell. 

There  the  flag  goes  draped  before  him ; 
Now  they  pile  the  grave  sod  o'er  him 

With  a  knell. 

And  he  answers  to  his  name 
In  the  higher  ranks  of  fame. 

There's  a  woman  left  to  mourn 
For  the  child  that  she  has  borne 

In  travail. 

But  her  heart  beats  high  and  higher, 
With  a  patriot  mother's  fire, 

At  the  tale. 

She  has  borne  and  lost  a  son, 
But  her  work  and  his  are  done. 

Fling  the  flag  out,  let  it  wave ; 
They're  returning  from  the  grave  — 

"  Double  quick  !  "" 
And  the  cymbals  now  are  crashing, 
Bright  his  comrades'  eyes  are  flashing 

From  the  thick 

Battle-ranks  which  knew  him  brave, 
No  tears  for  a  hero's  grave. 

In  the  east  the  morning  comes, 
Hear  the  rattle  of  the  drums 

Far  away. 

Now  no  time  for  griefs  pursuing, 
Other  work  is  for  the  doing, 

Here  to-day. 

He  is  sleeping,  let  him  rest 
With  the  flag  across  his  breast. 


A  FROLIC 

Swing  yo'  lady  roun'  an'  roun', 

Do  de  bes'  you  know  ; 
Mek  yo'  bow  an'  p'omenade 

Up  an'  down  de  flo' ; 
Mek  dat  banjo  hump  huhse'f, 

Listen  at  huh  talk : 
Mastah  gone  to  town  to-night ; 

'Tain't  no  time  to  walk. 

LiP  yo'  feet  an'  flutter^hoo, 

Run,  Miss  Lucy,  run  ; 
Reckon  you'Jl  be  cotched  an'  kissed 

'Fo'  de  night  is  done. 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


281 


You  don't  need  to  be  so  proud  — 

I's  a-watchin*  you, 
An'  I's  layin'  lots  o'  plans 

Fu'  to  git  you,  too. 

Moonlight  on  de  cotton-fieP 

Shinin'  sof  an'  white, 
Whippo'will  a-tellin'  tales 

Out  thaih  in  de  night ; 
An'  yo'  cabin's  'crost  de  lot : 

Run,  Miss  Lucy,  run  ; 
Reckon  you'll  be  cotched  an'  kissed 

To*  de  night  is  done. 


LOVE'S  CASTLE 

Key  and  bar,  key  and  bar; 

Iron  bolt  and  chain  ! 
And  what  will  you  do  when  the  King  comes 

To  enter  his  domain  ? 

Turn  key  and  lift  bar, 

Loose,  oh,  bolt  and  chain  ! 
Open  the  door  and  let  him  in, 

And  then  lock  up  again. 

But,  oh,  heart,  and  woe,  heart, 

Why  do  you  ache  so  sore  ? 
Never  a  moment's  peace  have  you 

Since  Love  hath  passed  the  door. 

Turn  key  and  lift  bar, 

And  loose  bolt  and  chain  ; 
But  Love  took  in  his  esquire,  Grief, 

And  there  they  both  remain. 


MORNING  SONG  OF  LOVE 

Darling,  my  darling,  my  heart  is  on  the 

wing, 

It  flies  to  thee  this  morning  like  a  bird, 
Like  happy  birds  in  spring-time  my  spirits 

soar  and  sing, 

The  same  sweet  song  thine  ears  have 
often  heard. 

The  sun  is  in  my  window,  the  shadow  on 

the  lea, 

The  wind  is  moving  in   the   branches 
green, 


And  all  my  life,  my  darling,  is  turning  unto 

thee, 

And  kneeling  at  thy  feet,  my  own,  my 
queen. 

The  golden  bells  are  ringing  across  the 

distant  hill, 
Their  merry  peals  come  to  me  soft  and 

clear, 

But  in  my  heart's  deep  chapel  all  incense- 
filled  and  still 
A  sweeter  bell  is  sounding  for  thee,  dear. 

The  bell  of  love  invites  thee  to  come  and 

seek  the  shrine 

Whose  altar  is  erected  unto  thee, 
The  offerings,  the  sacrifice,  the   prayers, 

the  chants  are  thine, 
And  I,  my  love,  thy  humble  priest  will 
be. 


ON  A  CLEAN  BOOK 

TO   F.    N. 

Like  sea-washed  sand  upon  the  shore, 

So  fine  and  clean  the  tale, 
So  clear  and  bright  I  almost  see, 

The  flashing  of  a  sail. 

The  tang  of  salt  is  in  its  veins, 

The  freshness  of  the  spray 
God  give  you  love  and  lore  and  strength, 

To  give  us  such  alway. 


TO  THE  EASTERN  SHORE 

I's  feelin'  kin*  o'  lonesome  in  my  little 

room  to-night, 
An'  my  min's  done  los*  de  minutes  an' 

de  miles, 
Wile  it  teks  me  back  a-flyin'  to  de  country 

of  delight, 
Whaih  de  Chesapeake  goes  grumblin' 

er  wid  smiles. 
Oh,  de  ol'  plantation's  callin'  to  me, 

Come,  come  back, 
Hyeah's  de  place  fu*  you  to  labor   an' 

to  res', 

Fu'  my  sandy  roads  is  gleamin'  w'ile 
de  city  ways  is  black  ; 


282 


THE  LIFE  AND,  WORKS 


Come  back,  honey,  case    yo'  country 
home  is  bes'. 

I  know  de  moon  is  shinin'  down  erpon  de 

Eastern  sho', 
An*  de  bay's  a-sayin'  "  Howdy  "  to  de 

Ian'; 
An'  de  folks  is  all  a-settin'  out  erroun'  de 

cabin  do', 

Wid  dey  feet  a-restin'  in  de  silvah  san' ; 
An*  de  ol'  plantation's  callin'  to  me, 

Come,  oh,  come, 
F'om   de   life  dat's  des'  a-waihin'  you 

erway, 
F'om  de  trouble  an'  de  bustle,  an'  de 

agernizin'  hum 
Dat  de  city  keeps  ergoin'  all  de  day. 

I's  tiahed  of  de  city,  tek  me  back  to  Sandy 

Side, 
Whaih  de  po'est  ones  kin  live  an'  play 

an'  eat ; 
Whaih  we  draws  a  simple  livin'  Pom  de 

fo'est  an'  de  tide, 
An*  de  days  ah  faih,  an'  evah  night  is 

sweet. 
Fu'  de  ol'  plantation's  callin'  to  ine, 

Come,  oh,  come. 
An*  the  Chesapeake's   a-sayin'  «  Dat's 

de  t'ing," 
Wile  my  little  cabin  beckons,  dough 

his  mouf  is  closed  an'  dumb, 
I's  a-comin',   an'   my  hea't   begins   to 
sing. 


BALLADE 

By  Mystics'  banks  I  held  my  dream. 

(I  held  my  fishing  rod  as  well), 
The  vision  was  of  dace  and  bream, 

A  fruitless  vision,  sooth  to  tell. 

But  round  about  the  sylvan  dell 
Were  other  sweet  Arcadian  shrines, 

Gone  now,  is  all  the  rural  spell, 
Arcadia  has  trolley  lines. 

Oh,  once  loved,  sluggish,  darkling  stream, 
For  me  no  more,  thy  waters  swell, 

Thy  music  now  the  engines'  scream, 
Thy  fragrance  now  the  factory's  smell ; 


Too  near  for  me  the  clanging  bell ; 
A  false  light  in  the  water  shines 

While  Solitude  lists  to  her  knell,— 
Arcadia  has  trolley  lines. 

Thy  wooded  lanes  with  shade  and  gleam 

Where  bloomed  the  fragrant  asphodel, 
Now  bleak  commercially  teem 

With  signs  "  To  Let,"  "  To  Buy,"  «  To 
Sell." 

And  Commerce  holds  them  fierce   and 

fell; 
With  vulgar  sport  she  now  combines 

Sweet  Nature's  piping  voice  to  quell. 
Arcadia  has  trolley  lines. 

L'ENVOI 

Oh,  awful  Power  whose  works  repel 
The  marvel  of  the  earth's  designs, — 

I'll  hie  me  otherwhere  to  dwell, 
Arcadia  has  trolley  lines. 


NODDIN'  BY   DE  FIRE 

Some  folks  t'inks  hit's  right  an'  p'opah, 

Soon  ez  bedtime  come  erroun', 
Fu'  to  scramble  to  de  kiver, 

Lak  dey'd  hyeahed  de  trumpet  soun*. 
But  dese  people  dey  all  misses 

Whut  I  mos'ly  does  desiah  ; 
Dat's  de  settin'  roun'  an'  dozin', 

An'  a-noddin'  by  de  fiah. 

When  you's  tiahed  out  a-hoein', 

Er  a-followin'  de  plough, 
Whut's  de  use  of  des  a-fallin' 

On  yo'  pallet  lak  a  cow  ? 
W'y,  de  fun  is  all  in  waitin' 

In  de  face  of  all  de  tiah, 
An'  a-dozin'  an'  a-drowsin' 

By  a  good  ol'  hick'ry  fiah. 

Oh,  you  grunts  an'  groans  an'  mumbles 

Case  yo'  bones  is  full  o'  col', 
Dough  you  feels  de  joy  a-tricklin' 

Roun'  de  co'nahs  of  yo'  soul. 
An'  you  Mow  anothah  minute 

'S  sho  to  git  you  wa'm  an'  dryah, 
W'en  you  set  up  pas'  yo'  bedtime, 

Case  you  hates  to  leave  de  fiah. 


BY  A  GOOD  OL'  HICK'RY  FIAH 


LI'L'  GAL 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


285 


Whut's  de  use  o'  downright  sleepin'  ? 

You  can't  feel  it  while  it  las', 
An'  you  git  up  feelin'  sorry 

Wen  de  time  fu'  it  is  pas'. 
Seem  to  me  dat  time  too  precious, 

An'  de  houahs  too  short  entiah, 
Fu'  to  sleep,  w'en  you  could  spen'  'em 

Des  a-noddin'  by  de  fiah. 

LI'L'  GAL 

Oh,  de  weathah  it  is  balmy  an'  de  breeze 
is  sighin'  low, 

LiTgal, 

An'  de  mockin'  bird  is  singin'  in  de  locus' 
by  de  do', 

LiTgal; 
Dere's  a  hummin'  an'  a  bummin'  in  de 

Ian'  f'om  eas'  to  wes', 
I's  a-sighin'  fu'  you,  honey,  an'  I  nevah 

know  no  res'. 

Fu'    dey's     lots    o'    trouble    brewin'   an* 
a-stewin'  in  my  breas', 
Li'l'  gal. 

Whut's  de  mattah  wid  de  weathah,  whut's 
de  mattah  wid  de  breeze, 

Li'l'  gal  ? 

Whut's    de   mattah   wid    de   locus'   clat's 
a-singin'  in  de  trees, 
Li'l'  gal  ? 
W'y  dey  knows  dey  ladies  love  'em,  an' 

dey  knows  dey  love  'em  true, 
An'  dey  love  'em  back,  I  reckon,  des'  lak 

I's  a-lovin'  you  ; 

Dat's    de     reason     dey's    a-weavin'    an' 
a-sighin',  thoo  an'  thoo, 
Li'l'  gal. 

Don't  you  let  no  da'ky  fool  you  'cause  de 
clo'es  he  waihs  is  fine, 

Li'l'  gal. 

Dey's  a  hones'  hea't  a-beatin'  unnerneaf 
dese  rags  o'  mine, 

Li'l'  gal. 
C'ose  dey  ain'  no  use  in  mockin'  whut  de 

birds  an*  weathah  do, 
But   I's   so'y    I    cain't   'spress   it    w'en   I 

knows  I  loves  you  true, 
Dat's  de  reason  I's  a-sighin'  an'  a-singin' 
now  fu'  you, 

Li'l'  gal. 


RELUCTANCE 

Will  I  have  some  mo'  dat  pie  ? 
No,  ma'am,  thank-ee,  dat  is — I — 

Bettah  quit  daihin'  me. 
Dat  ah  pie  look  sutny  good : 
How'd  you  feel  now  ef  I  would  ? 
I  don'  reckon  dat  I  should ; 

Bettah  quit  daihin'  me. 


Look  hyeah,  I  gwine  tell  de  truf, 
Mine  is  sholy  one  sweet  toof : 

Bettah  quit  daihin'  me. 
Yass'm,  yass'm,  dat's  all  right, 
I's  done  tried  to  be  perlite : 
But  dat  pie's  a  lakly  sight, 

Wha's  de  use  o'  daihin'  me  ? 


My,  yo'  lips  is  full  an'  red, 
Don't  I  wish  you'd  tu'n  yo'  haid  ? 

Bettah  quit  daihin'  me. 
Dat  ain't  faih,  now,  honey  chile, 
I's  gwine  lose  my  sense  erwhile 
Ef  you  des  set  daih  an'  smile, 

Bettah  quit  daihin'  me. 

Nuffin'  don'  look  ha'f  so  fine 

Ez  dem  teef,  deah,  w'en  dey  shine : 

Bettah  quit  daihin'  me. 
Now  look  hyeah,  I  tells  you  dis ; 
I'll  give  up  all  othah  bliss 
Des  to  have  one  little  kiss, 

Bettah  quit  daihin'  me. 

Laws,  I  teks  yo'  little  han', 
Ain't  it  tendah  ?  bless  de  Ian*  — 

Bettah  quit  daihin'  me. 
I's  so  lonesome  by  myse'f, 
'D  ain't  no  fun  in  livin'  lef ' ; 
Dis  hyeah  life's  ez  dull  ez  def  : 

Bettah  quit  daihin'  me. 

Whyn't  you  tek  yo'  han'  erway  ? 
Yass,  I'll  hoi'  it :  but  I  say 

Bettah  quit  daihin'  me. 
Hol'in*  han's  is  sholy  fine. 
Seems  lak  dat's  de  weddin'  sign. 
Wish  you'd  say  dat  you'd  be  mine  ; 

Dah  you  been  daihin'  me. 


286 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


SPEAKIN'  AT  DE  COUT-HOUSE 

Dey  been  speakin'  at  de  cou't-house, 

An'  laws-a-massy  me, 
'Twas  de  beatness  kin'  o*  doin's 

Dat  evah  I  did  see. 
Of  cose  I  had  to  be  dah 

In  de  middle  o'  de  crowd, 
An'  I  hallohed  wid  de  othahs, 

Wen  de  speakah  riz  and  bowed. 

I  was  kind  o'  disapp'inted 

At  de  smallness  of  de  man, 
Case  I'd  allus  pictered  great  folks 

On  a  mo'  expansive  plan ; 
But  I  fought  I  could  respect  him 

An'  tek  in  de  wo'ds  he  said, 
Fu'  dey  sho  was  somep'n  knowin* 

In  de  bald  spot  on  his  haid. 

But  hit  did  seem  so't  o'  funny 

Aftah  waitin'  fu'  a  week 
Dat  de  people  kep'  on  shoutin' 

So  de  man  des  couldn't  speak  ; 
De  ho'ns  dey  blared  a  little, 

Den  dey  let  loose  on  de  drums, — 
Some  one  tol'  me  dey  was  playin' 

"  See  de  conkerin'  hero  comes." 

"  Well,"  says  I,  "  you  all  is  white  folks, 

But  you's  sutny  actin'  queer, 
What's  de  use  of  heroes  comin' 

Ef  dey  cain't  talk  w'en  dey's  here  ?  " 
Aftah  while  dey  let  him  open, 

An'  dat  man  he  waded  in, 
An'  he  fit  de  wahs  all  ovah 

Winnin'  victeries  lak  sin. 


W'en  he  come  down  to  de  present, 

Den  he  made  de  feathahs  fly. 
He  des  waded  in  on  money, 

An'  he  played  de  ta'iff  high. 
An'  he  said  de  colah  question, 

Hit  was  ovah,  solved,  an'  done, 
Dat  de  dahky  was  his  brothah, 

Evah  blessed  mothah's  son. 

Well  he  settled  all  de  trouble 
Dat's  been  pesterin'  de  Ian', 

Den  he  set  down  mid  de  cheerin* 
An'  de  playin'  of  de  ban'. 


I  was  feelin'  moughty  happy 

'Twell  I  hyeahed  somebody  speak, 

"  Well,  dat's  his  side  of  de  bus'ness, 
But  you  wait  for  Jones  nex'  week." 


BLACK  SAMSON  OF  BRANDYWINE 

"  In  the  fight  at  Brandywine,  Black  Samson,  a 
giant  negro  armed  with  a  scythe,  sweeps  his  way 
thro'  the  red  ranks.  .  .  ."  C.  M.  SKINNER'S 
"  Myths  and  Legends  of  Our  Own  Land'' 

Gray  are  the  pages  of  record, 

Dim  are  the  volumes  of  eld ; 
Else  had  old  Delaware  told  us 

More  that  her  history  held. 
Told  us  with  pride  in  the  story, 

Honest  and  noble  and  fine, 
More  of  the  tale  of  my  hero, 

Black  Samson  of  Brandywine. 

Sing  of  your  chiefs  and  your  nobles, 

Saxon  and  Celt  and  Gaul, 
Breath  of  mine  ever  shall  join  you, 

Highly  I  honor  them  all. 
Give  to  them  all  of  their  glory, 

But  for  this  noble  of  mine, 
Lend  him  a  tithe  of  your  tribute, 

Black  Samson  of  Brandywine. 

There  in  the  heat  of  the  battle, 

There  in  the  stir  of  the  fight, 
Loomed  he,  an  ebony  giant, 

Black  as  the  pinions  of  night. 
Swinging  his  scythe  like  a  mower 

.Over  a  field  of  grain, 
Needless  the  care  of  the  gleaners, 

Where  he  had  passed  amain. 

Straight  through  the  human  harvest, 

Cutting  a  bloody  swath, 
Woe  to  you,  soldier  of  Briton  ! 

Death  is  abroad  in  his  path. 
Flee  from  the  scythe  of  the  reaper, 

Flee  while  the  moment  is  thine, 
None  may  with  safety  withstand  him, 

Black  Samson  of  Brandywine. 

Was  he  a  freeman  or  bondman  ? 

Was  he  a  man  or  a  thing  ? 
What  does  it  matter  ?     His  brav'ry 

Renders  him  royal — a  king. 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


287 


If  he  was  only  a  chattel, 
Honor  the  ransom  may  pay 

Of  the  royal,  the  loyal  black  giant 
Who  fought  for  his  country  that  day. 

Noble  and  bright  is  the  story, 

Worthy  the  touch  of  the  lyre, 
Sculptor  or  poet  should  find  it 

Full  of  the  stuff  to  inspire. 
Beat  it  in  brass  and  in  copper, 

Tell  it  in  storied  line, 
So  that  the  world  may  remember 

Black  Samson  of  Brandywine. 


THE  LOOKING-GLASS 

Dinah  stan'  befo'  de  glass, 

Lookin'  moughty  neat, 
An'  huh  purty  shadder  sass 

At  huh  haid  an'  feet. 
While  she  sasshay  'roun'  an'  bow, 
Smilin'  den  an'  poutiii'  now, 
An'  de  lookin'-glass,  I  'low 

Say :  "  Now,  ain't  she  sweet  ?  " 

All  she  do,  de  glass  it  see, 

Hit  des  see,  no  mo', 
Seems  to  me,  hit  ought  to  be 

Drappin'  on  de  flo'. 
She  go  w'en  huh  time  git  slack, 
Kissin'  han's  an'  smilin'  back. 
Lawsy,  how  my  lips  go  smack, 

Watchin'  at  de  do'. 

Wisht  I  was  huh  lookin'-glass, 
W'en  she  kissed  huh  han' ; 

Does  you  t'ink  I'd  let  it  pass, 
Settin'  on  de  stan'  ? 

No ;  I'd  des'  fall  down  an'  break, 

Kin'  o'  glad  't  uz  fu'  huh  sake  ; 

But  de  diffunce,  dat  whut  make 
Lookin'-glass  an'  man. 


A  MISTY  DAY 

Heart  of  my  heart,  the  day  is  chill, 
The  mist  hangs  low  o'er  the  wooded  hill, 
The  soft  white  mist  and  the  heavy  cloud 
The  sun  and  the  face  of  heaven  shroud. 
The  birds  are  thick  in  the  dripping  trees, 
That  drop  their  pearls  to  the  beggar  breeze ; 


No  songs  are  rife  where  songs  are  wont, 
Each  singer  crouches  in  his  haunt. 

Heart  of  my  heart,  the  day  is  chill, 
Whene'er  thy  loving  voice  is  still, 
The  cloud  and  mist  hide  the  sky  from  me. 
Whene'er  thy  face  I  cannot  see. 
My  thoughts  fly  back  from  the  chill  with- 
out, 
My  mind   in   the  storm  drops  doubt  on 

doubt, 

No  songs  arise.     Without  thee,  love, 
My  soul  sinks  down  like  a  frightened  dove. 


DOUGLASS 

Ah,  Douglass,  we  have  fall'n  on  evil  days, 
Such  days  as  thou,  not  even  thou  didst 

know, 
When  thee,  the  eyes  of  that  harsh  long 

ago 

Saw,  salient,  at  the  cross  of  devious  ways, 

And  all  the  country  heard  thee  with  amaze. 

Not  ended  then,  the  passionate  ebb  and 

flow, 

The  awful  tide  that  battled  to  and  fro ; 
We  ride  amid  a  tempest  of  dispraise. 
Now,  when  the  waves  of  swift  dissension 

swarm, 

And  Honor,  the  strong  pilot,  lieth  stark, 
Oh,  for  thy  voice  high-sounding  o'er  the 

storm, 

For  thy  strong  arm  to  guide  the  shiver- 
ing bark, 

The  blast-defying  power  of  thy  form, 
To  give  us  comfort  through  the  lonely 
dark. 


BOOKER  T.  WASHINGTON 

The  word  is  writ  that  he  who  runs  may 

read. 

What  is  the  passing  breath  of  earthly  fame  ? 
But   to   snatch  glory  from  the  hands  of 

blame  — 

That  is  to  be,  to  live,  to  strive  indeed. 
A  poor  Virginia  cabin  gave  the  seed, 
And  from  its  dark  and  lowly  door  there 

came 
A  peer  of  princes  in  the  world's  acclaim, 


288 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


A  master  spirit  for  the  nation's  need. 
Strong,  silent,  purposeful  beyond  his  kind, 
The  mark  of  rugged  force  on  brow  and 

lip, 

Straight  on  he  goes,  nor  turns  to  look  be- 
hind 
Where  hot  the  hounds  come  baying  at 

his  hip ; 

With  one  idea  foremost  in  his  mind, 
Like  the  keen  prow  of  some  on-forging 
ship. 


THE  MONK'S  WALK 

This  poem  was  written  in  autumn,  at 
Washington,  D.  C.,  after  the  shadows  of 
the  death  of  his  domestic  peace  had  begun 
to  fall.  He  sometimes  spoke  of  becoming 
a  priest  of  the  Church,  and  this  half- 
formed  desire  may  be  observed  in  several 
stanzas  of  the  Monk's  Walk.  Reference 
to  his  henceforth  lonely  life  is  made  thus  — 

"  Is  it  living  thus  to  live  ? 
Has  life  nothing  more  to  give  ? 
Ah,  no  more  of  smile  or  sigh  — 
Life,  the  world,  and  love,  good-bye." 

The  poem  is  one  of  a  series  of  three 
whose  direct  inspiration  was  found  in  his 
discovery  of  a  violet  blooming  in  No- 
vember. 

In  this  sombre  garden  close 
What  has  come  and  passed,  who  knows  ? 
What  red  passion,  what  white  pain 
Haunted  this  dim  walk  in  vain  ? 

Underneath  the  ivied  wall, 
Where  the  silent  shadows  fall, 
Lies  the  pathway  chill  and  damp 
Where  the  world-quit  dreamers  tramp. 

Just  across,  where  sunlight  burns, 
Smiling  at  the  mourning  ferns, 
Stand  the  roses,  side  by  side, 
Nodding  in  their  useless  pride. 

Ferns  and  roses,  who  shall  say 
What  you  witness  day  by  day  ? 
Covert  smile  or  dropping  eye, 
As  the  monks  go  pacing  by. 


Has  the  novice  come  to-day 
Here  beneath  the  wall  to  pray  ? 
Has  the  young  monk,  lately  chidden, 
Sung  his  lyric,  sweet,  forbidden  ? 

Tell  me,  roses,  did  you  note 
That  pale  father's  throbbing  throat  ? 
Did  you  hear  him  murmur,  "  Love ! " 
As  he  kissed  a  faded  glove  ? 

Mourning  ferns,  pray  tell  me  why 
Shook  you  with  that  passing  sigh  ? 
Is  it  that  you  chanced  to  spy 
Something  in  the  Abbot's  eye  ? 

Here  no  dream,  nor  thought  of  sin, 
Where  no  worlding  enters  in  ; 
Here  no  longing,  no  desire, 
Heat  nor  flame  of  earthly  fire. 

Branches  waving  green  above, 
Whisper  naught  of  life  nor  love  ; 
Softened  winds  that  seem  a  breath, 
Perfumed,  bring  no  fear  of  death. 

Is  it  living  thus  to  live  ? 
Has  life  nothing  more  to  give  ? 
Ah,  no  more  of  smile  or  sigh  — 
Life,  the  world,  and  love,  good-bye. 

Gray,  and  passionless,  and  dim, 
Echoing  of  the  solemn  hymn, 
Lies  the  walk,  'twixt  fern  and  rose, 
Here  within  the  garden  close. 


LOVE-SONG 

If  Death  should  claim  me  for  her  own  to- 
day, 
And   softly  I   should  falter  from  your 

side, 
Oh,  tell  me,  loved  one,  would  my  memory 

stay, 
And   would   my  image   in   your  heart 

abide  ? 

Or  should  I  be  as  some  forgotten  dream, 
That  lives  its  little  space,  then  fades  en- 
tire ? 
Should  Time  send  o'er  you  its  relentless 

stream, 

To  cool  your  heart,  and  quench  for  aye 
love's  fire  ? 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


289 


I  would  not  for  the  world,  love,  give  you 

pain, 
Or  ever  compass  what  would  cause  you 

grief ; 
And,  oh,  how  well   I  know  that  tears  are 

vain! 
But  love  is  sweet,  my  dear,  and  life  is 

brief; 

So  if  some  day  before  you  I  should  go 
Beyond  the  sound  and  sight  of  song  and 

sea, 
'Twould  give  my  spirit  stronger  wings  to 

know 

That  you  remembered  still  and  wept  for 
me. 

SLOW  THROUGH  THE  DARK 

Slow  moves   the   pageant  of  a  climbing 

race; 
Their  footsteps  drag  far,  far  below  the 

height, 
And,     unprevailing     by    their     utmost 

might, 
Seem  faltering  downward  from  each  hard 

won  place. 
No  strange,  swift-sprung  exception  we ;  we 

trace 
A    devious    way  thro'  dim,   uncertain 

light,— 
Our    hope,   through    the    long  vistaed 

years,  a  sight 
Of   that  our  Captain's  soul  sees  face  to 

face. 
Who,  faithless,  faltering  that  the  road  is 

steep, 

Now  raiseth  up  his  drear  insistent  cry  ? 
Who  stoppeth  here  to  spend  a  while  in 

sleep 
Or   curseth   that   the   storm  obscures  the 

sky? 
Heed  not  the  darkness  round  you,  dull 

and  deep; 

The  clouds  grow  thickest  when  the  sum- 
mit's nigh. 

THE  MURDERED  LOVER 

Say    a    mass    for  my  soul's    repose,  my 

brother, 

Say  a  mass  for  my  soul's  repose,  I  need 
it, 


Lovingly  lived  we,  the  sons  of  one  mother, 
Mine   was  the  sin,  but  I  pray  you  not 
heed  it. 

Dark  were  her  eyes  as  the  sloe  and  they 

called  me, 
Called   me  with  voice  independent  of 

breath. 

God  !  how  my  heart  beat ;  her  beauty  ap- 
palled me, 

Dazed  me,  and  drew  to  the  sea-brink  of 
death. 

Lithe  was  her  form  like  a  willow.     She 

beckoned, 

What  could  I  do  save  to  follow  and  fol- 
low, 
Nothing    of    right    or    result    could    be 

reckoned  ; 

Life  without  her  was  unworthy  and  hol- 
low. 

Ay,  but  I  wronged  thee,  my  brother,  my 

brother ; 

Ah,  but  I  loved  her,  thy  beautiful  wife. 
Shade  of  our  father,  and  soul  of  our  mother. 
Have  I  not  paid  for  my  love  with  my 
life? 

Dark  was  the  night  when,  revengeful,  I 

met  vou, 

Deep  in  the  heart  of  a  desolate  land. 
Warm  was  the  life-blood  which  angrily 

wet  you, 

Sharp  was  the  knife  that  I  felt  from  your 
hand. 

Wept  you,  oh,  wept  you,  alone  by  the  river, 

When  my  stark  carcass  you  secretly  sank. 

Ha,   now   I    see    that  you  tremble  and 

shiver ; 

Twas  but  my  spirit  that  passed  when 
you  shrank ! 

Weep   not,  oh,  weep  not,   'tis  over,  'tis 

over ; 
Stir  the  dark  weeds  with  the  turn  of  the 

tide; 

Go,  thou  hast  sent  me  forth,  ever  a  rover, 
Rest  and   the   sweet  realm  of  heaven 
denied. 


290 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


Say  a    mass    for   my   soul's   repose,   my 

brother, 

Say  a  mass  for  my  soul,  I  need  it. 
Sin  of  mine  was  it,  and  sin  of  no  other, 
Mine   was   it   all,  but   I  pray  you  not 
heed  it. 


PHILOSOPHY 

I  been  t'inkin'  'bout  de  preachah ;  whut  he 

said  de  othah  night, 
'Bout   hit  bein'   people's   dooty,  fu'  to 

keep  dey  faces  bright ; 
How  one  ought  to  live  so  pleasant  dat 

ouah  tempah  never  riles, 
Meetin'  evahbody  roun'  us    wid   ouah 
very  nicest  smiles. 

Dat's  all  right,  I  ain't  a-sputin'  not  a  t'ing 

dat  soun's  lak  fac', 
But  you  don't  ketch  folks  a-grinnin'  wid 

a  misery  in  de  back ; 
An*  you  don't  fin*  dem  a-smilin'  w'en  dey's 

hongry  ez  kin  be, 

Leastways,  dat's  how  human  natur'  allus 
seems  to  'pear  to  me. 

We  is  mos'  all  putty  likely  fu'  to  have  our 

little  cares, 
An'  I  think  we'se  doin'  fus'  rate  w'en 

we  jes'  go  long  and  bears, 
Widout  breakin'  up  ouah  faces  in  a  sickly 

so't  o*  grin, 

W'en  we  knows  dat  in  ouah  innards  we 
is  p'intly  mad  ez  sin. 

Oh,  dey's  times  fu'  bein'  pleasant  an*  fu' 

goin'  smilin'  roun', 
'Cause  I  don't  Relieve  in  people  allus 

totin'  roun'  a  frown, 
But  it's  easy  'nough  to  titter  w'en  de  stew 

is  smokin*  hot, 

But   hit's  mighty  ha'd  to   giggle  w'en 
dey's  nuffin'  in  de  pot. 


A  PREFERENCE 

Mastah  drink  his  ol'  Made'a, 
Missy  drink  huh  sherry  wine, 

Ovahseah  lak  his  whiskey, 
But  dat  othah  drink  is  mine, 


Des'    'lasses    an'  watah,  'lasses  an' 
watah. 


you  git  a 

On  de  table,  go  way,  man ! 
'D  ain't  but  one  t'ing  to  go  wid  it, 
'Sides  de  gravy  in  de  pan, 

Dat's   'lasses   an'   watah,   'lasses  an' 
watah. 

W'en  hit's  'possum  dat  you  eatin', 

'Simmon  beer  is  moughty  sweet ; 
But  fu'  evahday  consumin' 
'D  aint*  no  mo'tal  way  to  beat 

Des'    'lasses  an'  watah,   'lasses  an' 
watah. 


W'y  de  bees  is  allus  busy, 

An'  ain*  got  no  time  to  was*  ? 
Hit's  beca'se  dey  knows  de  honey 
Dey's  a  makin',  gwine  to  tas' 
Lak   'lasses    an'   watah,   'lasses 
watah. 


Oh,  hit's  moughty  mil'  an'  soothin', 

An'  hit  don'  go  to  yo'  haid; 
Dat's  de  reason  I's  a-backin' 
Up  de  othah  wo'ds  I  said, 

"  Des    'lasses    an'  watah,  'lasses  an' 
watah." 


THE  DEBT 

This  is  the  debt  I  pay 
Just  for  one  riotous  day, 
Years  of  regret  and  grief, 
Sorrow  without  relief. 


Pay  it  I  will  to  the  end  — 
Until  the  grave,  my  friend, 
Gives  me  a  true  release  — 
Gives  me  the  clasp  of  peace. 

Slight  was  the  thing  I  bought, 
Small  was  the  debt  I  thought, 
Poor  was  the  loan  at  best  — 
God  !  but  the  interest ! 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


291 


ON  THE  DEDICATION  OF 
DOROTHY  HALL 

TUSKEEGEE,  ALA.,  APRIL  22,  1 90 1. 

Not  to  the  midnight  of  the  gloomy  past, 
Do  we  revert  to-day ;  we  look  upon 

The  golden  present  and  the  future  vast 
Whose   vistas  show   us  visions   of  the 
dawn. 

Nor  shall  the  sorrows  of  departed  years 
The  sweetness  of  our  tranquil  souls  an- 
noy, 
The   sunshine   of  our  hopes  dispels   the 

tears, 
And  clears  our  eyes  to  see  this  later  joy. 

Not  ever  in  the  years  that  God  hath  given 
Have  we  gone  friendless  down  the 

thorny  way, 
Always  the  clouds  of  pregnant  black  were 

riven 
By  flashes  from  his  own  eternal  day. 

The  women  of  a  race  should  be  its  pride ; 

We  glory  in  the  strength  our  mothers 

had, 
We  glory  that  this  strength  was  not  denied 

To  labor  bravely,  nobly,  and  be  glad. 

God  give  to  these  within  this  temple  here, 
Clear  vision  of  the  dignity  of  toil, 

That  virtue  in  them  may  its  blossoms  rear 
Unspotted,  fragrant,  from  the  lowly  soil. 

God  bless  the  givers  for  their  noble  deed, 
Shine  on  them  with  the  mercy  of  thy 

face,    •* 
Who  come  with  open  hearts  to  help  and 

speed 

The   striving  women  of    a   struggling 
race. 


A  ROADWAY 

Let  those  who  will  stride  on  their  barren 
roads 

And  prick  themselves  to  haste  with  self- 
made  goads, 

Unheeding,  as  they  struggle  day  by  day, 

If  flowers  be  sweet  or  skies  be  blue  or 
gray; 


For   me,  the  lone,   cool   way  by  purling 

brooks, 

The  solemn  quiet  of  the  woodland  nooks, 
A  song-bird  somewhere  trilling  sadly  gay, 
A  pause  to  pick  a  flower  beside  the  way. 

BY  RUGGED  WAYS 

By  rugged  ways  and  thro*  the  night 
We  struggle  blindly  towards  the  light ; 
And  groping,  stumbling,  ever  pray 
For  sight  of  long  delaying  day. 
The  cruel  thorns  beside  the  road 
Stretch  eager  points  our  steps  to  goad, 
And  from  the  thickets  all  about 
Detaining  hands  reach  threatening  out. 

"  Deliver  us,  oh,  Lord,"  we  cry, 

Our  hands  uplifted  to  the  sky. 

No  answer  save  the  thunder's  peal, 

And  onward,  onward,  still  we  reel. 

"  Oh,  give  us  now  thy  guiding  light ;  " 

Our  sole  reply,  the  lightning's  blight. 

"  Vain,  vain,"    cries    one,   "  in   vain  we 

call;" 
But  faith  serene  is  over  all. 

Beside  our  way  the  streams  are  dried, 
And  famine  mates  us  side  by  side. 
Discouraged  and  reproachful  eyes 
Seek  once  again  the  frowning  skies. 
Yet   shall   there   come,   spite   storm   and 

shock, 

A  Moses  who  shall  smite"  the  rock, 
Call  manna  from  the  Giver's  hand, 
And  lead  us  to  the  promised  land ! 

X 

The  way  is  dark  and  cold  and  steep, 

And  shapes  of  horror  murder  sleep, 

And  hard  the  unrelenting  years  ; 

But  'twixt  our  sighs  and  moans  and  tears, 

We  still  can  smile,  we  still  can  sing, 

Despite  the  arduous  journeying. 

For  faith  and  hope  their  courage  lend, 

And  rest  and  light  are  at  the  end. 

LOVE'S  SEASONS 

When  the  bees  are  humming  in  the  hon- 
eysuckle vine 

And    the    summer    days    are  in  their 
bloom, 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


Then  my  love  is  deepest,  oh,  dearest 
heart  of  mine, 

When  the  bees  are  humming  in  the  hon- 
eysuckle vine. 

When  the  winds   are   moaning  o'er   the 

meadows  chill  and  gray, 
And  the  land  is  dim  with  winter  gloom, 
Then  for  thee,  my  darling,  love  will  have 

its  way, 
When  the  winds  are   moaning   o'er   the 

meadows  chill  and  gray. 

In  the  vernal  dawning  with  the  starting  of 

the  leaf, 
In  the  merry-chanting  time  of  spring, 

Love  steals  all  my  senses,  oh,  the  happy- 
hearted  thief! 

In  the  vernal  morning  with  the  starting  of 
the  leaf. 

Always,  ever  always,  even  in  the  autumn 

drear, 
When  the  days  are  sighing  out  their 

grief, 
Thou  art  still  my  darling,  dearest  of  the 

dear, 
Always,  ever  always,  even  in  the  autumn 

drear. 


TO  A  DEAD  FRIEND 

It  is  as  if  a  silver  chord 

Were  suddenly  grown  mute, 

And  life's  song  with  its  rhythm  warred 
Against  a  silver  lute. 

It  is  as  if  a  silence  fell 

Where  bides  the  garnered  sheaf, 
And  voices  murmuring,  "  It  is  well," 

Are  stifled  by  our  grief. 

It  is  as  if  the  gloom  of  night 

Had  hid  a  summer's  day, 
And  willows,  sighing  at  their  plight, 

Bent  low  beside  the  way. 

For  he  was  part  of  all  the  best 
That  Nature  loves  and  gives, 

And  ever  more  on  Memory's  breast 
He  lies  and  laughs  and  lives. 


TO  THE  SOUTH 

ON   ITS   NEW   SLAVERY 

Heart  of  the   Southland,  heed  me   plead- 
ing now, 

Who  bearest,  unashamed,  upon  my  brow 
The  long  kiss  of  the  loving  tropic  sun, 
And  yet,  whose  veins  with  thy  red  current 
run. 


Borne  on   the   bitter    winds  from  every 

hand, 

Strange  tales  are  flying  over  all  the  land, 
And  Condemnation,  with  his  pinions  foul, 
Glooms  in  the  place  where  broods  the 

midnight  owl. 

WThat  art  thou,  that  the  world  should  point 

at  thee, 
And  vaunt  and  chide  the  weakness  that 

they  see  ? 
There  was  a  time  they  were  not  wont  to 

chide ; 
Where  is  thy  old,  uncompromising  pride  ? 

Blood-washed,  thou  shouldst  lift  up  thine 

honored  head, 

White  with  the  sorrow  for  thy  loyal  dead 
Who  lie  on  every  plain,  on  every  hill, 
And  whose  high  spirit  walks  the  South- 
land still : 

Whose  infancy  our  mother's  hands  have 

nursed. 

Thy  manhood,  gone  to  battle  unaccursed, 
Our  fathers  left  to  till  th'  reluctant  field, 
To  rape  the  soil  for  what  she  would  not 

yield; 

Wooing  for  aye,  the  cold  unam'rous  sod, 

Whose  growth  for  them  still  meant  a  mas- 
ter's rod ; 

Tearing  her  bosom  for  the  wealth  that 
gave 

The  strength  that  made  the  toiler  still  a 
slave. 

Too  long  we  hear  the  deep  impassioned 

cry 
That  echoes  vainly  to  the  heedless  sky ; 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


293 


Too  long,  too  long,  the  Macedonian  call 
Falls  fainting  far  beyond  the  outward  wall, 

Within  whose  sweep,  beneath  the  shadow- 
ing trees, 

A  slumbering  nation  takes  its  dangerous 
ease; 

Too  long  the  rumors  of  thy  hatred  go 

For  those  who  loved  thee  and  thy  children 
so. 


Thou   must  arise    forthwith,  and   strong, 

thou  must 
Throw   off  the    smirching   of  this    baser 

dust, 

Lay  by  the  practice  of  this  later  creed, 
And  be  thine  honest  self  again  indeed. 

There   was  a  time   when   even   slavery's 

chain 

Held  in  some  joys  to  alternate  with  pain, 
Some  little  light  to  give  the  night  relief, 
Some   little   smiles  to  take   the   place  of 

grief. 

There   was  a  time   when,  jocund  as  the 

day, 

The  toiler  hoed  his  row  and  sung  his  lay, 
Found  something  gleeful  in  the  very  air, 
And  solace  for  his  toiling  everywhere. 

Now    all    is    changed,   within  the    rude 

stockade, 
A  bondsman  whom  the  greed  of  men  has 

made 

Almost  too  brutish  to  deplore  his  plight, 
Toils  hopeless  on  from  joyless  morn  till 

night. 

For  him  no  more  the  cabin's  quiet  rest, 
The  homely  joys  that  gave  to  labor  zest ; 
No  more  for  him  the  merry  banjo's  sound, 
Nor    trip    of    lightsome    dances    footing 
round. 


For  him  no  more  the  lamp  shall  glow  at 

eve, 
Nor  chubby   children  pluck   him  by  the 

sleeve ; 


No  more  for  him  the  master's  eyes  be 
bright, — 

He  has  nor  freedom's  nor  a  slave's  de- 
light; 

What,  was  it  all  for  naught,  those  awful 

years 
That  drenched  a  groaning  land  with  blood 

and  tears  ? 

Was  it  to  leave  this  sly  convenient  hell, 
That  brother  fighting  his  own  brother  fell  ? 

When  that  great  struggle  held  the  world 

in  awe, 
And  all  the  nations  blanched  at  what  they 

saw, 
Did  Sanctioned  Slavery  bow  its  conquered 

head 
That  this  unsanctioned  crime  might  rise 

instead  ? 

Is  it  for  this  we  all  have  felt  the  flame,— 
This    newer    bondage    and    this    deeper 

shame  ? 

Nay,  not  for  this,  a  nation's  heroes  bled, 
And  North  and  South  with  tears  beheld 

their  dead. 

Oh,  Mother   South,  hast  thou  forgot  thy 

ways, 

Forgot  the  glory  of  thine  ancient  days, 
Forgot   the  honor   that  once   made  thee 

great, 
And  stooped  to  this  unhallowed  estate  ? 

It  cannot  last,  thou  wilt   come   forth   in  „ 

might, 
A   warrior   queen    full    armored  for   the 

fight; 
And  thou  wilt  take,  e'en  with  thy  spear  in 

rest, 
Thy  dusky  children  to  thy  saving  breast. 

Till  then,  no  more,  no  more  the  gladsome 

song, 
Strike  only  deeper  chords,   the   notes  01 

wrong ; 
Till  then,  the  sigh,  the  tear,  the  oath,  the 

moan, 
Till  thou,  oh,  South,  and   thine,  come  to 

thine  own. 


294 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


ROBERT  GOULD  SHAW 

Why  was  it  that  the  thunder  voice  of  Fate 
Should    call   thee,   studious,   from    the 

classic  groves, 

Where  calm-eyed  Pallas  with  still  foot- 
step roves, 
And  charge  thee  seek  the  turmoil  of  the 

state  ? 

What  bade  thee  hear  the  voice  and  rise 
elate, 

Leave  home  and  kindred  and  thy  spicy 

loaves, 
To  lead  th'  unlettered  and  despised 

droves 
To  manhood's  home  and  thunder  at  the 

gate? 

Far  better  the  slow  blaze  of  Learning's 

light, 

The  cool  and  quiet  of  her  dearer  fane, 
Than  this  hot  terror  of  a  hopeless  fight, 

This  cold  endurance  of  the  final  pain, — 
Since  thou  and  those  who  with  thee  died 

for  right 

Have  died,  the  Present  teaches,  but  in 
Tain! 


ROSES 

Oh,  wind  of  the  spring-time,  oh,  free  wind 

of  May, 
When  blossoms  and  bird-song  are  rife ; 

Oh,  joy  for  the  season,  and  joy  for  the  day, 
That  gave  me  the  roses  of  life,  of  life, 
That  gave  me  the  roses  of  life. 

Oh,  wind  of  the  summer,  sing  loud  in  the 

night, 

When  flutters  my  heart  like  a  dove  ; 
One  came  from  thy  kingdom,  thy  realm  of 

delight, 

And  gave  me  the  roses  of  love,  of  love, 
And  gave  me  the  roses  of  love. 

Oh,  wind  of  the  winter,  sigh  low  in  thy 

grief, 
I  hear  thy  compassionate  breath ; 

I  wither,  I  fall,  like  the  autumn-kissed  leaf, 
He  gave  me  the  roses  of  death,  of  death, 
He  gave  me  the  roses  of  death. 


WHEN  SAM'L  SINGS 

Hyeah  dat  singin'  in  de  medders 

Whaih  de  folks  is  mekin'  hay  ? 
Wo'k  is  pretty  middlin'  heavy 

Fu'  a  man  to  be  so  gay. 
You  kin  tell  dey's  somep'n  special 

F'om  de  canter  o'  de  song ; 
Somep'n  sholy  pleasin'  Sam'l, 

W'en  he  singin'  all  day  long. 

Hyeahd  him  wa'blin'  'way  dis  mo'nin' 

'Fo'  'twas  light  enough  to  see. 
Seem  lak  music  in  de  evenin' 

Allus  good  enough  fu'  me. 
But  dat  man  commenced  to  hollah 

'Fo'  he'd  even  washed  his  face  ; 
Would  you  b'lieve,  de  scan'lous  rascal 

Woke  de  birds  erroun'  de  place  ? 

Sam'l  took  a  trip  a-Sad'day  ; 

Dressed  hisse'f  in  all  he  had, 
Tuk  a  cane  an'  went  a-strollin', 

Lookin'  mighty  pleased  an'  glad. 
Some  folks  don'  know  whut  de  mattah, 

But  I  do,  you  bet  yo'  life ; 
Sam'l  smilin'  an'a-smgin' 

'Case  he  been  to  see  his  wife. 

She  live  on  de  fu'  plantation, 

Twenty  miles  erway  er  so  ; 
But  huh  man  is  mighty  happy 

W'en  he  git  de  chanst  to  go. 
Walkin'  allus  ain'  de  nices' — 

Mo'nin'  fin's  him  on  de  way  — 
But  he  allus  comes  back  smilin', 

Lak  his  pleasure  was  his  pay. 

Den  he  do  a  heap  o'  talkin', 

Do'  he  mos'ly  kin'  o'  still, 
But  de  wo'ds,  dey  gits  to  runnin' 

Lak  de  watah  fu'  a  mill. 
"  Whut's  de  use  o'  havin'  trouble, 

Whut's  de  use  o'  havin'  strife  ?  " 
Dat's  de  way  dis  Sam'l  preaches 

W'en  he  been  to  see  his  wife. 


An'  I  reckon  I  git  jealous, 
Fu'  I  laffan'  joke  an'  sco'n, 

An'  I  say,  "  Oh,  go  on,  Sam'l, 
Des  go  on,  an'  blow  yo'  ho'n." 


SAM'L  TOOK  A  TRIP  A-SAD'DAY 


DON'  FIDDLE  DAT  CHUNE  NO  Mo' 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


297 


But  I  know  dis  comin'  Sad'day, 
Dey'll  be  brighter  days  in  life  ; 

An'  I'll  be  ez  glad  ez  Sam'l 
Wen  I  go  to  see  my  wife. 


Fu 


ITCHING  HEELS 

o'   my  eachin'   heels,  set 


de    peace 
down ; 

Don'  fiddle  dat  chune  no  mo'. 
Don'  you  see  how  dat  melody  stuhs  me  up 

An'  baigs  me  to  tek  to  de  flo'  ? 
You  knows    I's    a    Christian,    good    an' 

strong ; 

I  wusship  Pom  June  to  June ; 
My  pra'cJis  dey  ah  loud  an'  my  hymns  ah 

long : 
I  baig  you  don'  fiddle  dat  chune. 

I's  a  crick  in  my  back  an'  a  misery  hyeah 

Whaih  de  j'ints's  gittin'  ol'  an'  stiff, 
But  hit  seems  lak  you  brings  me  de  bref 
o'  my  youf ; 

Wy,  I's  suttain  I  noticed  a  w'iff. 
Don'  fiddle  dat  chune  no  mo',  my  chile, 

Don't  fiddle  dat  chune  no  mo' ; 
I'll  git  up  an'  taih  up  dis  groun'  fu'  a  mile, 

An'  den  I'll  be  chu'ched  fu'  it,  sho'. 

Oh,  fiddle  dat  chune  some  mo',  I  say, 

An'  fiddle  it  loud  an'  fas' : 
I's  a  youngstah  ergin  in  de  mi'st  o'  my  sin ; 

De  p'esent's  gone  back  to  de  pas'. 
I'll    dance   to   dat   chune,   so   des   fiddle 
erway ; 

I  knows  how  de  backslidah  feels ; 
So  fiddle  it  on  'twell  de  break  o'  de  day 

Fu'  de  sake  o'  my  eachin'  heels. 


THE  HAUNTED  OAK 

Pray  why  are  you  so  bare,  so  bare, 
Oh,  bough  of  the  old  oak-tree  ; 

And  why,  when  I  go  through  the  shade 

you  throw, 
Runs  a  shudder  over  me  ? 

My  leaves  were  green  as  the  best,  I  trow, 
And  sap  ran  free  in  my  veins, 

But  I  saw  in  the  moonlight  dim  and  weird 
A  guiltless  victim's  pains. 


I  bent  me  down  to  hear  his  sigh ; 

I  shook  with  his  gurgling  moan, 
And  I  trembled  sore  when  they  rode  away, 

And  left  him  here  alone. 


They'd  charged  him   with  the   old,  old 
crime, 

And  set  him  fast  in  jail : 
Oh,  why  does  the  dog  howl  all  night  long, 

And  why  does  the  night  wind  wail  ? 


He  prayed  his  prayer  and  he  swore  his 
oath, 

And  he  raised  his  hand  to  the  sky ; 
But  the  beat  of  hoofs  smote  on  his  ear, 

And  the  steady  tread  drew  nigh. 

Who  is  it  rides  by  night,  by  night, 

Over  the  moonlit  road  ? 
And  what  is  the  spur  that  keeps  the  pace, 

What  is  the  galling  goad  ? 

And  now  they  beat  at  the  prison  door, 

"  Ho,  keeper,  do  not  stay ! 
We  are  friends  of  him  whom  you  hold 
within, 

And  we  fain  would  take  him  away 

"  From  those  who  ride  fast  on  our  heels 

With  mind  to  do  him  wrong; 
They  have  no  care  for  his  innocence, 

And  the  rope  they  bear  is  long." 

They  have   fooled   the  jailer  with   lying 
words, 

They  have  fooled  the  man  with  lies; 
The  bolts  unbar,  the  locks  are  drawn, 

And  the  great  door  open  flies. 

Now  they  have  taken  him  from  the  jail, 

And  hard  and  fast  they  ride, 
And  the  leader  laughs  low  down  in  his 
throat, 

As  they  halt  my  trunk  beside. 

Oh,  the  judge,  he  wore  a  mask  of  black, 

And  the  doctor  one  of  white, 
And  the  minister,  with  his  oldest  son, 

Was  curiously  bedight. 


298 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


Oh,  foolish  man,  why  weep  you  now  ? 

Tis  but  a  little  space, 
And  the  time  will  come  when  these  shall 
dread 

The  mem'ry  of  your  face. 

I  feel  the  rope  against  my  bark, 
And  the  weight  of  him  in  my  grain, 

I  feel  in  the  throe  of  his  final  woe 
The  touch  of  my  own  last  pain. 

And  never  more  shall  leaves  come  forth 
On  a  bough  that  bears  the  ban ; 

I  am  burned  with  dread,  I  am  dried  and 

dead, 
From  the  curse  of  a  guiltless  man. 

And  ever  the  judge  rides  by,  rides  by, 

And  goes  to  hunt  the  deer, 
And  ever  another  rides  his  soul 

In  the  guise  of  a  mortal  fear. 

And  ever  the  man  he  rides  me  hard, 

And  never  a  night  stays  he ; 
For  I  feel  his  curse  as  a  haunted  bough, 

On  the  trunk  of  a  haunted  tree. 


WELTSCHMERTZ 

The  poet  once  told  this  author  that  he 
wrote  the  poem  "  Weltschmertz  "  not  long 
before  his  great  sorrow  came  into  his  life, 
and  in  anticipated  comradeship  he  could 
"sympathize"  with  the  falling  leaf,  the 
bare  tree,  the  bird  leaving  her  wind-swept 
nest,  and  with  those  who  had  lost  friends. 
His  sorrow  was  to  be  greater  than  death, 
a  living  grief,  an  ever-present  remorse. 

Foreknowing  is  one  of  the  gifts  of  the 
poetic  mind,  and  a  poet  is  no  more  phi- 
losopher than  prophet  or  seer.  Many  times 
a  beautiful  concept  will  take  possession  of 
the  mind  only  to  be  later  verified  in  actual 
happenings. 

Every  picture  of  Dunbar's  Weltschmertz 
was  afterwards  painted  on  the  canvas  of 
Dunbar's  own  experience.  Did  not  the 
falling  leaf  and  the  bare  tree  anti-type  his 
deserted  hearthstone  ?  the  wind-swept  nest 


his  home  after  the  fires  of  anger  had  burned 
out  and  the  two  human  singers  who  had 
sung  there  had  flown  to  other  climes  ? 
Were  not  his  "  unbidden  tears "  at  the 
sight  of  a  passing  hearse,  bearing  a  child 
to  the  cemetery,  forewarnings  of  the  time 
when  he  would  come  to  feel  as  did  his 
brother  poet  Riley  upon  the  death  of  a 
friend's  baby  — 

"  Oh,  how  much  sadder  I 
Who  have  no  child  to  die  !  " 

And  so  one  might  follow  the  poem 
through,  and  at  the  end  decide  that  it 
proved  a  flawless  prophecy. 

You  ask  why  I  am  sad  to-day, 
I  have  no  cares,  no  griefs,  you  say  ? 
Ah,  yes,  'tis  true,  I  have  no  grief — 
But — is  there  not  the  falling  leaf? 

The  bare  tree  there  is  mourning  left 
With  all  of  autumn's  gray  bereft ; 
It  is  not  what  has  happened  me. 
Think  of  the  bare,  dismantled  tree. 

The  birds  go  South  along  the  sky, 
I  hear  their  lingering,  long  good-bye. 
Who  goes  reluctant  from  my  breast  ? 
And  yet — the  lone  and  wind-swept  nest. 

The  mourning,  pale-flowered  hearse  goes 

by, 

Why  does  a  tear  come  to  my  eye  ? 
Is  it  the  March  rain  blowing  wild? 
I  have  no  dead,  I  know  no  child. 

I  am  no  widow  by  the  bier 
Of  him  I  held  supremely  dear. 
I  have  not  seen  the  choicest  one 
Sink  down  as  sinks  the  westering  sun. 

Faith  unto  faith  have  I  beheld, 
For  me,  few  solemn  notes  have  swelled 
Love  beckoned  me  out  to  the  dawn, 
And  happily  I  followed  on. 

And  yet  my  heart  goes  out  to  them 
Whose  sorrow  is  their  diadem ; 
The  falling  leaf,  the  crying  bird, 
The  voice  to  be,  all  lost,  unheard  — 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


299 


Not  mine,  not  mine,  and  yet  too  much 
The  thrilling  power  of  human  touch, 
While  all  the  world  looks  on  and  scorns 
I  wear  another's  crown  of  thorns. 

Count  me  a  priest  who  understands 
The  glorious  pain  of  nail-pierced  hands ; 
Count  me  a  comrade  of  the  thief 
Hot  driven  into  late  belief. 

Oh,  mother's  tear,  oh,  father's  sigh, 
Oh,  mourning  sweetheart's  last  good-bye, 
I  yet  have  known  no  mourning  save 
Beside  some  brother's  brother's  grave. 


A  LOVE  SONG 

Ah,  love,  my  love  is  like  a  cry  in  the  night, 
A  long,  loud  cry  to  the  empty  sky, 
The  cry  of  a  man  alone  in  the  desert, 
With  hands  uplifted,  with  parching  lips, 

Oh,  rescue  me,  rescue  me, 
Thy  form  to  mine  arms, 
The  dew  of  thy  lips  to  my  mouth, 
Dost  thou  hear  me  ? — my   call  thro'   the 
night  ? 

Darling,  I  hear  thee  and  answer, 

Thy  fountain  am  I, 

All  of  the  love  of  my  soul  will  I  bring  to 

thee, 
All  of  the  pains  of  my  being  shall  wring 

to  thee, 
Deep  and  forever  the  song  of  my  loving 

shall  sing  to  thee, 
Ever  and  ever  thro'  day  and  thro'  night 

shall  I  cling  to  thee. 
Hearest  thou  the  answer  ? 
Darling,  I  come,  I  come. 


TO  AN  INGRATE 

This  is  to-day,  a  golden  summer's  day, 

And  yet — and  yet 

My  vengeful  soul  will  not  forget 
The  past,  forever  now  forgot,  you  say. 

From  that  half  height  where  I  had  sadly 

climbed, 
I  stretched  my  hand, 

17 


I  lone  in  all  that  land, 
Down   there,  where,  helpless,  you  were 
limed. 

Our  fingers  clasped,  and  dragging  me  a 

pace, 

You  struggled  up. 
It  is  a  bitter  Cup, 

That  now  for  naught,  you  turn  away  your 
face. 

I  shall  remember  this  for  aye  and  aye. 

Whate'er  may  come, 

Although  my  lips  are  dumb, 
My  spirit  holds  you  to  that  yesterday. 


IN  THE  TENTS  OF  AKBAR 

In  the  tents  of  Akbar 
Are  dole  and  grief  to-day, 

For  the  flower  of  all  the  Indies 
Has  gone  the  silent  way. 

In  the  tents  of  Akbar 

Are  emptiness  and  gloom, 

And  where  the  dancers  gather, 
The  silence  of  the  tomb. 

Across  the  yellow  desert, 
Across  the  burning  sands, 

Old  Akbar  wanders  madly, 
And  wrings  his  fevered  hands. 

And  ever  makes  his  moaning 
To  the  unanswering  sky, 

For  Sutna,  lovely  Sutna, 
Who  was  so  fair  to  die. 

For  Sutna  danced  at  morning, 
And  Sutna  danced  at  eve  ; 

Her  dusky  eyes  half  hidden 
Behind  her  silken  sleeve. 

Her  pearly  teeth  out-glancing 

Between  her  coral  lips, 
The  tremulous  rhythm  of  passion 

Marked  by  her  quivering  hips. 

As  lovely  as  a  jewel 
Of  fire  and  dewdrop  blent, 


300 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


So  danced  the  maiden  Sutna 
In  gallant  Ak bar's  tent. 

And  one  who  saw  her  dancing, 
Saw  her  bosom's  fall  and  rise 

Put  all  his  body's  yearning 
Into  his  lovelit  eyes. 

Then  Akbar  came  and  drove  him  — 

A  jackal — from  his  door, 
And  bade  him  wander  far  and  look 

.On  Sutna's  face  no  more. 

Some  day  the  sea  disgorges, 
The  wilderness  gives  back, 

Those  half-dead  who  have  wandered, 
Aimless,  across  its  track. 

And  he  returned — the  lover, 
Haggard  of  brow  and  spent ; 

He  found  fair  Sutna  standing 
Before  her  master's  tent. 

«  Not  mine,  nor  Akbar's,  Sutna  !  " 
He  cried  and  closely  pressed, 

And  drove  his  craven  dagger 
Straight  to  the  maiden's  breast. 

Oh,  weep,  oh,  weep,  for  Sutna, 
So  young,  so  dear,  so  fair, 

Her  face  is  gray  and  silent 
Beneath  her  dusky  hair. 

And  wail,  oh,  wail,  for  Akbar, 
Who  walks  the  desert  sands, 

Crying  aloud  for  Sutna, 

Wringing  his  fevered  hands. 

In  the  tents  of  Akbar 

The  tears  of  sorrow  run, 
But  the  corpse  of  Sutna's  slayer, 

Lies  rotting  in  the  sun. 


THE  FOUNT  OF  TEARS 

All  hot  and  grimy  from  the  road, 
Dust  gray  from  arduous  years, 

I  sat  me  down  and  eased  my  load 
Beside  the  Fount  of  Tears. 


The  waters  sparkled  to  my  eye, 

Calm,  crystal-like,  and  cool, 
And  breathing  there  a  restful  sigh, 

I  bent  me  to  the  pool. 

When,  lo  !  a  voice  cried  :  "  Pilgrim,  rise, 

Harsh  tho'  the  sentence  be, 
And  on  to  other  lands  and  skies  — 

This  fount  is  not  for  thee. 

"  Pass  on,  but  calm  thy  needless  fears, 

Some  may  not  love  or  sin, 
An  angel  guards  the  Fount  of  Tears ; 

All  may  not  bathe  therein." 

Then  with  my  burden  on  my  back 

I  turned  to  gaze  awhile, 
First  at  the  uninviting  track, 

Then  at  the  water's  smile. 

And  so  I  go  upon  my  way, 

Thro'out  the  sultry  years, 
But  pause  no  more,  by  night,  by  day, 

Beside  the  Fount  of  Tears. 


LIFE'S  TRAGEDY 

It  may  be  misery  not  to  sing  at  all 

And  to  go  silent  through  the  brimming 

day. 

It  may  be  sorrow  never  to  be  loved, 
But  deeper  griefs  than  these  beset  the 
way. 

To  have  come  near  to  sing  the  perfect  song 
And  only  by  a  half-tone  lost  the  key, 

There  is  the  potent  sorrow,  there  the  grief, 
The  pale,  sad  staring  of  life's  tragedy. 

To  have  just  missed  the  perfect  love, 
Not    the    hot    passion  of   untempered 

youth, 
But  that  which  lays  aside  its  vanity 

And  gives  thee,  for  thy  trusting  worship, 
truth  — 

This,  this  it  is  to  be  accursed  indeed ; 

For  if  we  mortals  love,  or  if  we  sing, 
We  count  our  joys  not  by  the  things  we 

have, 

But  by  what  kept  us  from  the  perfect 
thing. 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


301 


DE  WAY  T'INGS  COME 

De  way  t'ings  come,  hit  seems  to  me, 
Is  des'  one  monst'ous  mystery  ; 
De  way  hit  seem  to  strike  a  man, 
Dey  ain't  no  sense,  dey  ain't  no  plan ; 
Ef  trouble  sta'ts  a  pilin'  down, 
It  ain't  no  use  to  rage  er  frown, 
It  ain't  no  use  to  strive  er  pray, 
Hit's  mortal  boun'  to  come  dat  way. 

Now,  ef  you's  hongry,  an'  yo'  plate 
Des'  keep  on  sayin'  to  you,  "  Wait," 
Don't  mek  no  diffunce  how  you  feel, 
'Twon't  do  no  good  to  hunt  a  meal, 
Fu'  dat  ah  meal  des'  boun'  to  hide 
Ontwell  de  devil's  satisfied, 
An'  'twell  dey's  somep'n  by'  to  cyave 
You's  got  to  ease  yo'se'f  an'  sta've. 

But  ef  dey's  co'n  meal  on  de  she'f 
You  needn't  bothah  'roun'  yo'se'f, 
Somebody's  boun'  to  amble  in 
An'  'vite  you  to  dey  co'n  meal  bin  ; 
An'  ef  you's  stuffed  up  to  de  froat 
Wid  co'n  er  middlin',  fowl  er  shoat, 
Des'  look  out  an'  you'll  see  fu'  sho 
A  'possum,  faint  befo'  yo'  do'. 

De  way  t'ings  happen,  huhuh,  chile, 

Dis  worl'  's  done  puzzled  me  one  w'ile 

I's  mighty  skeered  I'll  fall  in  doubt, 

I  des'  won't  try  to  reason  out 

De  reason  why  folks  strive  an'  plan 

A  dinnah  fu'  a  full-fed  man, 

An'  shet  de  do'  an'  cross  de  street 

F'om  one  dat  raally  needs  to  eat. 


NOON 

Shadder  in  de  valley 
Sunlight  on  de  hill, 
Sut'ny  wish  dat  locus' 
Knowed  how  to  be  still. 
Don't  de  heat  already 
Mek  a  body  hum, 
'Dout  dat  insec*  sayin' 
Hottah  days  to  come  ? 

Fiel'  's  a  shinin'  yaller 
Wid  de  bendin'  grain, 


Guinea  hen  a  callin', 
Now's  de  time  fu'  rain  ; 
Shet  yo'  mouf,  you  rascal, 
Wha'  's  de  use  to  cry  ? 
You  do'  see  no  rain  clouds 
Up  dah  in  de  sky. 

Dis  hyeah  sweat's  been  po'in* 
Down  my  face  sence  dawn  ; 
Ain't  hit  time  we's  hyeahin* 
Dat  ah  dinnah  ho'n  ? 
Go  on,  Ben  an'  Jaspah, 
Lif '  yo'  feet  an'  fly, 
Hit  out  fu'  de  shadder 
Fo'  I  drap  an'  die. 

Hongry,  lawd  a'  mussy, 
Hongry  as  a  baih, 
Seems  lak  I  hyeah  dinnah 
Callin'  evahwhaih ; 
Daih's  de  ho'n  a  blowin* ! 
Let  dat  cradle  swing, 
One  mo*  sweep,  den  da'kies, 
Beat  me  to  de  spring ! 


AT  THE  TAVERN 

A  lilt  and  a  swing, 

And  a  ditty  to  sing, 
Or  ever  the  night  grow  old  ; 

The  wine  is  within, 

And  I'm  sure  'twere  a  sin 
For  a  soldier  to  choose  to  be  cold,  my  dear, 
For  a  soldier  to  choose  to  be  cold. 

We're  right  for  a  spell, 

But  the  fever  is — well, 
No  thing  to  be  braved,  at  least ; 

So  bring  me  the  wine  ; 

No  low  fever  in  mine, 
For  a  drink  is  more  kind  than  a  priest,  my 

dear, 
For  a  drink  is  more  kind  than  a  priest. 


DEATH 

Storm  and  strife  and  stress, 
Lost  in  a  wilderness, 
Groping  to  find  a  way, 
Forth  to  the  haunts  of  day 


302 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


Sudden  a  vista  peeps, 
Out  of  the  tangled  deeps, 
Only  a  point — the  ray 
But  at  the  end  is  day. 

Dark  is  the  dawn  and  chill, 
Daylight  is  on  the  hill, 
Night  is  the  flitting  breath, 
Day  rides  the  hills  of  death. 


NIGHT,  DIM  NIGHT 

Night,  dim  night,  and  it  rains,  my  love,  it 
rains, 

(Art  thou  dreaming  of  me,  I  wonder) 
The  trees  are  sad,  and  the  wind  complains, 

Outside  the  rolling  of  the  thunder, 
And  the  beat  against  the  panes. 

Heart,  my  heart,  thou  art  mournful  in  the 
rain, 

(Are  thy  redolent  lips  a-quiver?) 
My  soul  seeks  thine,  doth  it  seek  in  vain  ? 

My  love  goes  surging  like  a  river, 
Shall  its  tide  bear  naught  save  pain  ? 


LYRICS  OF  LOVE  AND  SORROW 

These  sonnets  were  all  born  of  Mr.  Dun- 
bar's  own  great  love  and  his  sorrow  at  the 
loss  of  it.  One  can  readily  picture  the 
poet,  bereft  of  the  woman  he  loved  so  pas- 
sionately— the  "Alice,"  of  his  youthful 
poem,  and  the  wife  of  earlier  years,  sitting 
alone  some  "  winter's  midnight  "  with  his 
bruised  heart— on  "  Heart-break  Hill." 

The  world's  sweetest  music  and  its 
greatest  poems  have  been  the  aftermaths 
of  human  heart-breaks,  and  these  little 
fragments,  so  perfect  in  metrical  form,  so 
melodious  and  so  masterly  are  no  excep- 
tion to  the  rule.  He  wrote  every  word 
with  a  mixture  of  life-blood  and  bitter 
tears. 


Love  is  the  light  of  the  world,  my  dear, 
Heigho,  but  the  world  is  gloomy  ; 

The  light  has  failed  and  the  lamp  down 

hurled, 
Leaves  only  darkness  to  me. 


Love  is  the  light  of  the  world,  my  dear, 
Ah  me,  but  the  world  is  dreary ; 

The  night  is  down,  and  my  curtain  furled 
But  I  cannot  sleep,  though  weary. 

Love  is  the  light  of  the  world,  my  dear, 

Alas  for  a  hopeless  hoping, 
When  the  flame  went  out  in  the  breeze 
that  swirled, 

And  a  soul  went  blindly  groping. 


II 

The  light  was  on  the  golden  sands, 

A  glimmer  on  the  sea ; 
My  soul  spoke  clearly  to  thy  soul, 

Thy  spirit  answered  me. 

Since  then  the  light  that  gilds  the  sands, 

And  glimmers  on  the  sea, 
But  vainly  struggles  to  reflect 

The  radiant  soul  of  thee. 


Ill 

The  sea  speaks  to  me  of  you 

All  the  day  long ; 
Still  as  I  sit  by  its  side 

You  are  its  song. 

The  sea  sings  to  me  of  you 

Loud  on  the  reef; 
Always  it  moans  as  it  sings, 

Voicing  my  grief. 

IV 

My  dear  love  died  last  night ; 

Shall  I  clothe  her  in  white  ? 
My  passionate  love  is  dead, 

Shall  I  robe  her  in  red  ? 
But  nay,  she  was  all  untrue. 

She  shall  not  go  drest  in  blue ; 
Still  my  desolate  love  was  brave, 

Unrobed  let  her  go  to  her  grave. 


V 

There  are  brilliant  heights  of  sorrow 
That  only  the  few  may  know  ; 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


303 


And   the   lesser  woes  of  the  world,  like 
waves, 

Break  noiselessly,  far  below. 
I  hold  for  my  own  possessing, 

A  mount  that  is  lone  and  still  — 
The  great  high  place  of  a  hopeless  grief, 

And  I  call  it  my  "  Heart-break  Hill." 
And  once  on  a  winter's  midnight 

I  found  its  highest  crown, 
And  there  in  the  gloom,  my  soul  and  I, 

Weeping,  we  sat  us  down. 

But  now  when  I  seek  that  summit 

We  are  two  ghosts  that  go ; 
Only  two  shades  of  a  thing  that  died, 

Once  in  the  long  ago. 
So  I  sit  me  down  in  the  silence, 

And  say  to  my  soul,  "  Be  still," 
So  the  world  may  not  know  we  died  that 
night, 

From  weeping  on  "  Heart  break  Hill." 


A  BOY'S  SUMMER  SONG 

'Tis  fine  to  play 

In  the  fragrant  hay, 
And  romp  on  the  golden  load ; 

To  ride  old  Jack 

To  the  barn  and  back, 
Or  tramp  by  a  shady  road. 

To  pause  and  drink, 

At  a  mossy  brink ; 
Ah,  that  is  the  best  of  joy, 

And  so  I  say 

On  a  summer's  day? 
What's    so    fine    as    being   a    boy? 
Ha,  Ha ! 

With  line  and  hook 

By  a  babbling  brook, 
The  fisherman's  sport  we  ply  ; 

And  list  the  song 

Of  the  feathered  throng 
That  flit  in  the  branches  nigh. 

At  last  we  strip 

For  a  quiet  dip ; 
Ah,  that  is  the  best  of  joy. 

For  this  I  say 

On  a  summer's  day, 
What's    so    fine    as    being    a    boy? 
Ha,  Ha! 


THE  SAND-MAN 

I  know  a  man 

With  face  of  tan, 
But  who  is  ever  kind  ; 

Whom  girls  and  boys 

Leave  games  and  toys 
Each  eventide  to  find. 

When  day  grows  dim, 
They  watch  for  him, 

He  comes  to  place  his  claim; 
He  wears  the  crown 
Of  Dreaming-town ; 

The  sand-man  is  his  name. 

When  sparkling  eyes 

Droop  sleepywise 
And  busy  lips  grow  dumb ; 

When  little  heads 

Nod  towards  the  beds, 
We  know  the  sand-man's  come. 


JOHNNY  SPEAKS 

The  sand-man  he's  a  jolly  old  fellow, 
His  face  is  kind  and  his  voice  is  mellow, 
But  he  makes  your  eyelids  as  heavy  as 

lead, 

And  then  you  got  to  go  off  to  bed ; 
I  don't  think  I  like  the  sand-man. 

But  I've  been  playing  this  livelong  day ; 
It  does  make  a  fellow  so  tired  to  play ! 
Oh,   my,   I'm   a-yawning  right   here   be- 
fore ma, 

I'm  the  sleepiest  fellow  that  ever  you  saw. 
I  think  I  do  like  the  sand-man. 


WINTER  SONG 

Oh,  who  would  be  sad  tho'  the  sky  be 

a-graying, 
And  meadow  and  woodlands  are  empty 

and  bare ; 
For  softly  and  merrily  now  there  come 

playing, 

The  little  white  birds  thro'  the  winter- 
kissed  air. 


304 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


The   squirrel's   enjoying  the   rest  of  the 

thrifty, 
He  munches  his  store  in  the  old  hollow 

tree; 
Tho'  cold  is  the  blast  and  the  snowflakes 

are  drifty 

He  fears  the  white  flock  not  a  whit  more 
than  we. 

Chorus  : 

Then  heigho  for  the  flying  snow  ! 
Over  the  whitened  roads  we  go, 

With  pulses  that  tingle, 

And  sleigh-bells  a-jingle 
For  winter's  white  birds  here's  a  cheery 
heigho  1 

THE  FOREST  GREETING 

Good  hunting  ! — aye,  good  hunting, 

Wherever  the  forests  call ; 
But  ever  a  heart  beats  hot  with  fear, 

And  what  of  the  birds  that  fall  ? 

Good  hunting ! — aye,  good  hunting, 
Wherever  the  north  winds  blow ; 
But  what  of  the   stag  that  calls  for  his 

mate  ? 
And  what  of  the  wounded  doe  ? 

Good  hunting ! — aye,  good  hunting, 
And  ah  !  we  are  bold  and  strong ; 

But  our  triumph  call  through  the  forest 

hall 
Is  a  brother's  funeral  song. 

For  we  are  brothers  ever, 

Panther  and  bird  and  bear ; 
Man  and  the  weakest  that  fear  his  face, 

Born  to  the  nest  or  lair. 

Yes,  brothers,  and  who  shall  judge  us  ? 

Hunters  and  game  are  we ; 
But  who  gave  the  right  for  me  to  smite  ? 

Who  boasts  when  he  smiteth  me  ? 

Good  hunting! — aye,  good  hunting, 

And  dim  is  the  forest  track  ; 
But  the  sportsman  Death  comes  striding 
on  : 

Brothers,  the  way  is  black. 


A  CHRISTMAS  FOLKSONG 

De  win'  is  blowin*  wahmah, 

An  hit's  blowin'  f 'om  de  bay ; 
Dey's  a  so't  o'  mist  a-risin' 

All  erlong  de  meddah  way ; 
Dey  ain't  a  hint  o'  frostin' 

On  de  groun'  ner  in  de  sky, 
An'  dey  ain't  no  use  in  hopin* 
Dat  de  snow'll  'mence  to  fly. 

It's  goin'  to  be  a  green  Christmas, 

An'  sad  de  day  fu'  me. 

I  wish  dis  was  de  las'  one 

Dat  evah  I  should  see. 

Dey's  dancin'  in  de  cabin, 

Dey's  spahkin'  by  de  tree ; 
But  dancin'  times  an'  spahkin' 

Are  all  done  pas'  fur  me. 
Dey's  feastin'  in  de  big  house, 
Wid  all  de  windahs  wide  — 
Is  dat  de  way  fu'  people 
To  meet  de  Christmas-tide  ? 

It's  goin'  to  be  a  green  Christmas, 

No  mattah  what  you  say. 
Dey's  us  dat  will  remembah 
An'  grieve  de  comin'  day. 

Dey's  des  a  bref  o'  dampness 

A-clingin'  to  my  cheek ; 
De  aihs  been  dahk  an'  heavy 
An'  threatenin'  fu'  a  week, 
But  not  wid  signs  o'  wintah, 

Dough  wintah 'd  seem  so  deah  — 
De  wintah's  out  o'  season, 
An'  Christmas  eve  is  heah. 

It's  goin'  to  be  a  green  Christmas, 

An'  oh,  how  sad  de  day  ! 

Go  ax  de  hongry  chu'chya'd, 

An'  see  what  hit  will  say. 

Dey's  Allen  on  de  hillside, 

An'  Marfy  in  de  plain ; 
Fu'  Christmas  was  like  spring-time, 

An'  come  wid  sun  an'  rain. 
Dey's  Ca'line,  John,  an'  Susie, 

Wid  only  dis  one  lef ' : 
An'  now  de  curse  is  comin' 
Wid  murder  in  hits  bref. 
It's  goin'  to  be  a  green  Christmas — 
Des  hyeah  my  words  an'  see : 
Befo'  de  summah  beckons 
Dey's  many'll  weep  wid  me. 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


30? 


SCAMP 

Ain't  it  nice  to  have  a  mammy 

Wen  you  kin'  o'  tiahed  out 
Wid  a-playin'  in  de  meddah, 

An'  a-runnin'  roun'  about 
Till  hit's  made  you  mighty  hongry, 

An'  yo'  nose  hit  gits  to  know 
What  de  smell  means  dat's  a-comin* 

F'om  de  open  cabin  do'  ? 
She  wash  yo'  face, 
An'  mek  yo'  place, 

You's  hongry  as  a  tramp ; 
Den  hit's  eat  you  suppah  right  away, 

You  sta'vin'  little  scamp. 

Wen  you's  full  o'  braid  an'  bacon, 

An'  dey  ain't  no  mo'  to  eat, 
An'  de  lasses  dat's  a-stickin' 

On  yo'  face  ta'se  kin'  o'  sweet, 
Don'  you  t'ink  hit's  kin'  o'  pleasin 

Fu'  to  have  som'body  neah 
Dat'll  wipe  yo'  han's  an'  kiss  you 

Fo'  dey  lif  you  f  om  yo'  cheah  ? 
To  smile  so  sweet, 
An'  wash  yo'  feet, 

An'  leave  'em  co'l  an'  damp  ; 
Den  hit's  come  let  me  undress  you,  now 

You  lazy  little  scamp. 

Don'  yo'  eyes  git  awful  heavy, 

An'  yo'  lip  git  awful  slack, 
Ain't  dey  som'p'n*  kin'  o'  weaknin' 

In  de  backbone  of  yo'  back  ? 
Don'  yo'  knees  feel  kin'  o'  trimbly, 

An'  yo'  head  go  bobbin'  roun', 
W'en  you  says  yo'  "  Now  I  lay  me," 

An'  is  sno'in'  on  de  "  down  "  ? 
She  kiss  yo'  nose, 
She  kiss  yo'  toes, 

An'  den  tu'n  out  de  lamp, 
Den  hit's  creep  into  yo'  trunnel  baid, 

You  sleepy  little  scamp. 


THE  LILY  OF  THE  VALLEY 

Sweetest  of  the  flowers  a-blooming 
In  the  fragrant  vernal  days 

Is  the  Lily  of  the  Valley 
With  its  soft,  retiring  ways. 


Well,  you  chose  this  humble  blossom 
As  the  nurse's  emblem  flower, 

Who  grows  more  like  her  ideal 
Every  day  and  every  hour. 

Like  the  Lily  of  the  Valley 

In  her  honesty  and  worth, 
Ah,  she  blooms  in  truth  and  virtue 

In  the  quiet  nooks  of  earth. 

Tho'  she  stands  erect  in  honor 

When  the  heart  of  mankind  bleeds, 

Still  she  hides  her  own  deserving 
In  the  beauty  of  her  deeds. 

In  the  silence  of  the  darkness 

Where  no  eye  may  see  and  know, 

There  her  footsteps  shod  with  mercy, 
And  fleet  kindness  come  and  go. 

Not  amid  the  sounds  of  plaudits, 

Nor  before  the  garish  day, 
Does  she  shed  her  soul's  sweet  perfume, 

Does  she  take  her  gentle  way. 

But  alike  her  ideal  flower, 
With  its  honey-laden  breath, 

Still  her  heart  blooms  forth  its  beauty 
In  the  valley  shades  of  death. 


ENCOURAGED 

This  dainty  verse  was  inscribed  to  a 
friend,  who  through  his  last  years,  was 
staunch  and  real  and  true,  who  understood 
him,  scolded  him  when  he  needed  it, 
praised  him  when  he  deserved  it,  and 
whose  love  was  a  ray  of  sunshine,  whole- 
some, and  warm  and  bright.  Ever  appre- 
ciative, he  thanked  his  friend  in  this  four- 
lined  bit  of  verse. 

Because    you  love   me   I  have   much 

achieved, 
Had  you  despised  me  then  I  must  have 

failed, 
But    since    I    knew   you   trusted   and 

believed, 
I  could  not  disappoint  you  and  so  prevailed. 


308 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


TO  J.  Q. 

What  are  the  things  that  make  life  bright  ? 

A  star  gleam  in  the  night. 
What  hearts  us  for  the  coming  fray  ? 

The  dawn  tints  of  the  day. 
What  helps  to  speed  the  weary  mile  ? 

A  brother's  friendly  smile. 
What  turns  o'  gold  the  evening  gray? 

A  flower  beside  the  way. 


DIPLOMACY 

Tell  your  love  where  the  roses  blow, 

And  the  hearts  of  the  lilies  quiver, 
Not  in  the  city's  gleam  and  glow, 

But  down  by  a  half-sunned  river. 
Not  in  the  crowded  ballroom's  glare, 

That  would  be  fatal,  Marie,  Marie, 
How  can  she  answer  you  then  and  there? 

So  come  then  and  stroll  with  me,  my 
dear, 

Down  where  the  birds  call,  Marie, 
Marie. 


THE  PLANTATION  CHILD'S 
LULLABY 

Wintah  time  hit  comin' 

Stealin'  thoo  de  night ; 
Wake  up  in  the  mo'nin' 

Evaht'ing  is  white ; 
Cabin  lookin'  lonesome 

Standin*  in  de  snow, 
Meks  you  kin'  o'  nervous, 

W'en  de  win'  hit  blow. 

Trompin'  back  from  feedin', 

Col'  an'  wet  an'  blue, 
Homespun  jacket  ragged, 

Win'  a-blowin*  thoo. 
Cabin  lookin'  cheerful, 

Unnerneaf  de  do', 
Yet  you  kin'  o'  keerful 

W'en  de  win'  hit  blow. 

Hickory  log  a-blazin' 

Light  a-lookin'  red, 
Faith  o'  eyes  o'  peepin' 

F'om  a  trun'le  bed, 


Little  feet  a-patterin' 
Cleak  across  de  flo'  ; 

Bettah  had  be  keerful 
W'en  de  win'  hit  blow. 

Suppah  done  an'  ovah, 

Evaht'ing  is  still ; 
Listen  to  de  snowman 

Slippin'  down  de  hill. 
Ashes  on  de  fiah, 

Keep  it  wa'm  but  low. 
What's  de  use  o'  keerin' 

Ef  de  win'  do  blow  ? 

Smoke  house  full  o'  bacon, 

Brown  an'  sweet  an'  good ; 
Taters  in  de  cellah, 

'Possum  roam  de  wood ; 
Little  baby  snoozin' 

Des  ez  ef  he  know. 
What's  de  use  o'  keerin' 

Ef  de  win'  do  blow? 


WADIN'  IN  DE  CRICK 

Days  git  wa'm  an'  wa'mah, 

School  gits  mighty  dull, 
Seems  lak  dese  hyeah  teachahs 

Mus'  feel  mussiful. 
Hockey's  wrong,  I  know  it 

Ain't  no  gent'man's  trick ; 
But  de  aih's  a-callin', 

"  Come  on  to  de  crick." 

Dah  de  watah's  gu'glin* 

Ovah  shiny  stones, 
Des  hit's  ve'y  singin' 

Seems  to  soothe  yo'  bones. 
W'at's  de  use  o'  waitin', 

Go  on  good  an'  quick : 
Dain't  no  fun  lak  dis  hyeah 

Wadin'  in  de  crick. 

W'at  dat  jay-bu'd  sayin'  ? 

Bettah  shet  yo'  haid, 
Fus*  t'ing  dat  you  fin'  out, 

You'll  be  layin'  daid. 
Jay-bu'ds  sich  a  tattlah, 

Des  seem  lak  his  trick 
Fu'  to  tell  on  folkses 

Wadin'  in  de  crick. 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


Wilier  boughs  a-bendin', 

Hidin'  of  de  sky, 
Wavin'  kin'  o'  frien'ly 

Ez  de  win'  go  by, 
Elum  trees  a-shinin',' 

Dahk  an'  green  an'  thick, 
Seem  to  say,  "  I  see  yo' 

Wadin'  in  de  crick." 

But  de  trees  don'  chattah, 

Dey  des  look  an'  sigh 
Lak  hit's  kin'  o'  peaceful 

Des  a  bein'  nigh, 
An'  yo'  t'ank  yo'  Mastah 

Dat  dey  trunks  is  thick 
Wen  yo'  mammy  fin's  you 

Wadin'  in  de  crick. 

Den  yo'  run  behin'  dem 

Lak  yo'  scaihed  to  def, 
Mammy  come  a  flyin', 

Mos'  nigh  out  o'  bref ; 
But  she  set  down  gentle 

An'  she  drap  huh  stick, — 
An'  fus'  t'ing,  dey's  mammy 

Wadin'  in  de  crick. 


CURIOSITY 

Mammy's  in  de  kitchen,  an'  de  do'  is  shet ; 
All  de  pickaninnies  climb  an'  tug  an' 

sweat, 

Gittin'  to  de  winder,  stickin'  dah  lak  flies, 
Evah  one  ermong  us  des  all  nose  an'  eyes. 
"  Whut's  she  cookin',  Isaac  ?  "  "  Whut's 

she  cookin',  Jake  ?  " 
"  Is   it   sweet    pertaters  ?     Is   hit   pie   er 

cake  ?  " 
But  we  couldn't  mek  out  even  whah  we 

stood 
Whut  was  mammy  cookin'  dat  could  smell 

so  good. 

Mammy  spread  de  winder,  an'  she  frown 

an'  frown. 
How    de    pickaninnies    come  a-tumblin* 

down ! 
Den  she  say :  "  Ef  you-all  keeps  a-peepin' 

in, 
How  Fse  gwine  to  whup  you,  my !  't  'ill 

be  a  sin ! 


Need  n'  come  a-sniffin'  an'  a-nosin"  hyeah, 
'Ca'se  I  knows  my  business,  nevah  feah." 
Won't  somebody  tell  us — how  I  wish  dey 

would ! — 
Whut  is  mammy  cookin'  dat  it  smells  so 

good? 

We  know  she  means  business,  an*  we  das- 
sent  stay, 

Dough  it's  mighty  tryin'  fuh  to  go  erway ; 

But  we  goes  a-troopin'  down  de  ol*  wood- 
track 

'Twell  dat  steamin'  kitchen  brings  us 
stealin'  back, 

Climbin'  an'  a-peepin'  so's  to  see  inside. 

Whut  on  earf  kin  mammy  be  so  sha'p  to 
hide  ? 

I'd  des  up  an'  tell  folks  w'en  I  knowed  I 
could, 

Ef  I  was  a-cookin*  t'ings  dat  smelt  so 
good. 

Mammy  in  de  oven,  an*  I  see  huh  smile  ; 
Moufs  mus'  be  a-wat'rin'  roun'  hyeah  fuh 

a  mile ; 

Den  we  almos'  hollah  ez  we  hu'ies  down, 
'Ca'se  hit's  apple  dumplin's,  big  an'  fat 

an'  brown ! 
WT'en  de  do'   is  opened,  solemn  lak  an* 

slow, 

Wisht  you  see  us  settin'  all  dah  in  a  row 
Innercent  an'  p'opah,  des  lak  chillun 

should 
W'en   dey   mammy's    cookin1    t'ings  dat 

smell  so  good. 


OPPORTUNITY 

Granny's  gone  a-visitin', 

Seen  huh  git  huh  shawl 
W'en  I  was  a  hidin'  down 

Hime  de  gyahden  wall. 
Seen  huh  put  her  bonnet  on, 

Seen  huh  tie  de  strings, 
An'  I'se  gone  to  dreamin'  now 

'Bout  dem  cakes  an'  t'ings. 

On  de  she'f  behime  de  do' — 
Mussy,  what  a  feas' ! 


312 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


Soon  ez  she  gits  out  o'  sight, 

I  kin  eat  in  peace. 
I  bin  watchin'  fu'  a  week 

Des  fu'  dis  hyeah  chance. 
Mussy,  w'en  I  gits  in  daih, 

I'll  des  sholy  dance. 


Lemon  pie  an'  gingah-cake, 

Let  me  set  an'  t'mk  — 
Vinegah  an'  sugah,  too, 

Dat'll  mek  a  drink  ; 
Ef  dey's  one  t'ing  dat  I  loves 

Mos'  pu'ticlahly, 
It  is  eatin*  sweet  t'ings  an' 

A-drinkin'  Sangaree. 


Lawdy,  won'  po'  granny  raih 

W'en  she  see  de  she'f; 
W'en  I  t'ink  erbout  huh  face, 

Fs  mos'  'shamed  myse'f. 
Well,  she  gone,  an'  hyeah  I  is, 

Back  behime  de  do' — 
Look  hyeah  !  gran'  'sdone  'spected  me, 

Dain't  no  sweets  no  mo'. 


Evah  sweet  is  hid  erway, 

Job  des  done  up  brown  ; 
Pusson  t'ink  dat  some  un  fought 

Dey  was  t'eves  erroun' ; 
Dat  des  breaks  my  heart  in  two, 

Oh,  how  bad  I  'feel ! 
Des  to  t'ink  my  own  gramma 

B'lieved  dat  I  Vd  steal ! 


TWILIGHT 

Twixt  a  smile  and  a  tear, 

'Twixt  a  song  and  a  sigh, 
'Twixt  the  day  and  the  dark, 
When  the  night  draweth  nigh. 


Ah,  sunshine  may  fade 
From  the  heavens  above, 

No  twilight  have  we 
To  the  day  of  our  love. 


THE  FISHER  CHILD'S  LULLABY 

The  wind  is  out  in  its  rage  to-night, 

And  your  father  is  far  at  sea. 
The   rime   on   the  window   is  hard  and 

white 

But  dear,  you  are  near  to  me. 
Heave  ho,  weave  low, 

Waves  of  the  briny  deep ; 
Seethe  low  and  breathe  low, 
But  sleep  you,  my  little  one, 
sleep,  sleep. 

The  little  boat  rocks  in  the  cove  no  more, 

But  the  flying  sea-gulls  wail ; 
I  peer  through  the  darkness  that  wraps 

the  shore, 

For  sight  of  a  home  set  sail. 
Heave  ho,  weave  low, 

Waves  of  the  briny  deep ; 
Seethe  low  and  breathe  low, 
But  sleep  you,  my  little  one, 
sleep,  sleep. 

Ay,  lad  of  mine,  thy  father  may  die 

In  the  gale  that  rides  the  sea, 
But  we'll  not  believe  it,  not  you  and  I, 
Who  mind  us  of  Galilee. 
Heave  ho,  weave  low, 

Waves  of  the  briny  deep ; 
Seethe  low  and  breathe  low, 
But  sleep  you,  my  little  one, 
sleep,  sleep. 


FAITH 

I's  a-gittin'  weary  of  de  way  dat  people 

do, 
De  folks  dat's  got  dey  'ligion  in  dey  fiah- 

place  an'  flue; 
Dey's  allus  somep'n'  comin'  so  de  spit'll 

have  to  turn, 
An'  hit  tain't  no  p'oposition  fu*to  mke  de 

hickory  bu'n. 
Ef    de    sweet    pertater    fails   us   an*   de 

go'geous  yallah  yam, 
We  kin  tek  a  bit  o'  comfo't  f 'om  ouah  slo' 

o'  summah  jam. 
W'en  de  snow  hit  git  to  flyin',  dat's  de 

Mastah's  own  desiah, 
De     Lawd'll     run    de    wintah    an'     yo' 

mammy'll  run  de  fiah. 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


I  ain*  skeered  because  de  win'  hit  staht 

to  raih  and  blow, 
I  ain't  bothahed  w'en  he  come  er  rattlin* 

at  de  do', 
Let   him   taih   hisse't  an'  shout,  let  him 

blow  an'  bawl, 

Dat's  de  time  de  branches  shek  an'  bresh- 
wood  'mence  to  fall. 

Wen  de  sto'm  er  railin'  an*  de  shettahs 
blowin'  'bout, 

Dat  de  time  de  fiahplace  crack  hits  wel- 
come out. 

Tain'  my  livin'  business  fu'  to  trouble  ner 
enquiah, 

De  Lawd'll  min'  de  wintah  an'  my 
mammy'll  min'  de  fiah. 

Ash  cake     allus     gits     ez     brown    w'en 

February's  hyeah 
Ez  it  does  in  bakin'  any  othah  time  o* 

yeah. 
De  bacon  smell  ez  callin'-like,  de  kittle 

rock  an'  sing, 
De  same  way  in  de  wintah  dat  dey  do  it 

in  de  spring ; 
Dey   ain't   no   use   in   mopin'   'round  an' 

lookin'  mad  an'  glum 
Erbout   de   wintah   season,   fu'   hit's  des 

plumb  boun'  to  come  • 

An'  ef  it  comes  to  runnin'  t'ings  I'swillin' 

to  retiah, 
De    Lawd'll    min1    de    wintah    an'    my 

mammy'll  min'  de  fiah. 


THE  FARM  CHILD'S  LULLABY 

Oh,  the  little  bird  is  rocking  in  the  cradle 

of  the  wind, 

And  it's  bye,  my  little  wee  one,  bye  ; 
The  harvest  all  is  gathered  and  the  pippins 

all  are  binned  ; 
Bye,  my  little  wee  one,  bye ; 
The    little  rabbit's  hiding  in   the  golden 

shock  of  corn, 
The    thrifty    squirrel's   laughing   bunny's 

idleness  to  scorn ; 
You  are  smiling  with  the  angels  in  your 

slumber,  smile  till  morn  ; 
So  it's  bye,  my  little  wee  one,  bye. 


There'll  be  plenty  in  the  cellar,  there'll  be 

plenty  on  the  shelf; 
Bye,  my  little  wee  one,  bye ; 
There'll  be  goodly  store  of  sweetings  for  a 

dainty  little  elf; 
Bye,  my  little  wee  one,  bye. 
The  snow  may  be  a-flying  o'er  the  meadow 

and  the  hill, 
The  ice  has  checked  the  chatter  of  the 

little  laughing  rill, 
.  But  in  your  cosey  cradle  you  are  warm  and 

happy  still; 
So  bye,  my  little  wee  one,  bye. 

Why,  the  Bob  White  thinks  the  snowflake 

is  a  brother  to  his  song ; 
Bye,  my  little  wee  one,  bye ; 
And  the  chimney  sings  the  sweeter  when 

the  wind  is  blowing  strong; 
Bye  my  little  wee  one,  bye  ; 
The  granary's  overflowing,  full  is  cellar, 

crib,  and  bin, 
The  wood  has  paid  its  tribute  and  the  ax 

has  ceased  its  din ; 
The  winter  may  not  harm  you  when  you're 

sheltered  safe  within ; 
So  bye,  my  little  wee  one,  bye. 


THE  PLACE  WHERE  THE  RAIN- 
BOW  ENDS 

There's  a  fabulous  story 
Full  of  splendor  and  glory, 

That  Arabian  legends  transcends  ; 
Of  the  wealth  without  measure, 
The  coffers  of  treasure, 

At  the  place  where  the  rainbow  ends. 

Oh,  many  have  sought  it, 
And  all  would  have  bought  it, 

With    the    blood    we    so   recklessly 

spend ; 

But  none  has  uncovered, 
The  gold,  nor  discovered 

The  spot  at  the  rainbow's  end. 

They  have  sought  it  in  battle, 
And  e'en  where  the  rattle 

Of    dice     with     man's     blasphemy 
blends ; 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


But  howe'er  persuasive, 
It  still  proves  evasive, 
This  place  where  the  rainbow  ends. 

I  own  for  my  pleasure, 
I  yearn  not  for  treasure, 

Though  gold  has  a  power  it  lends ; 
And  I  have  a  notion, 
To  find  without  motion, 

The  place  where  the  rainbow  ends. 

The  pot  may  hold  pottage, 
The  place  be  a  cottage, 

That  a  humble  contentment  defends, 
Only  joy  fills  its  coffer, 
But  spite  of  the  scoffer, 

There's  the  place  where  the  rainbow 
ends. 

Where  care  shall  be  quiet, 
And  love  shall  run  riot, 

And    I    shall    find    wealth    in    my 

friends ; 

Then  truce  to  the  story, 
Of  riches  and  glory  ; 

There's  the  place  where  the  rainbow 
ends. 


HOPE 

De  dog  go  howlin'  'long  de  road,    , 
De  night  come  shiverin'  down  ; 

My  back  is  tiahed  of  its  load, 
I  cain't  be  fu'  f'om  town. 

No  mattah  ef  de  way  is  long, 

My  haht  is  swellin'  wid  a  song, 
No  mattah  'bout  de  frownin'  skies, 
I'll  soon  be  home  to  see  my  Lize. 

My  shadder  staggah  on  de  way, 

It's  monst'ous  col'  to-night; 
But  I  kin  hyeah  my  honey  say 

"  W'y  bless  me  if  de  sight 
O'  you  ain't  good  fu'  my  so'  eyes." 
(Dat  talk's  dis  lak  my  lady  Lize) 

I's  so'y  case  de  way  was  long 

But  Lawd  you  bring  me  love  an'  song. 

No  mattah  ef  de  way  is  long, 

An'  ef  I  trimbles  so' 
I  knows  de  fiah's  burnin'  strong, 


Behime  my  Lizy's  do'. 
An'  daih  my  res'  an'  joy  shell  be, 
Whaih  my  ol'  wife's  awaitin'  me  — 
Why  what  I  keer  fu'  stingin'  bias', 
I  see  huh  windah  light  at  las'. 


APPRECIATION 

My  muvver's  ist  the  nicest  one 

'At  ever  lived  wiz  folks ; 
She  lets  you  have  ze  mostes'  fun, 

An'  laffs  at  all  your  jokes. 

I  got  a  ol'  maid  auntie,  too, 

The  worst  you  ever  saw ; 
Her    eyes    ist  bore  you  through   and 
through, — 

She  ain't  a  bit  like  ma. 

She's  ist  as  slim  as  slim  can  be, 
An'  when  you  want  to  slide 

Down  on  ze  balusters,  w'y  she 
Says  'at  she's  harrified. 

She  ain't  as  nice  as  Uncle  Ben, 

What  says  'at  little  boys 
Won't  never  grow  to  be  big  men 

Unless  they're  fond  of  noise. 

But  muvver's  nicer  zan  'em  all, 
She  calls  you,  "  precious  lamb," 

An'  lets  you  roll  your  ten-pin  ball, 
An'  spreads  your  bread  wiz  jam. 

An*  when  you're  bad,  she  ist  looks  sad, 
You  fink  she's  goin'  to  cry  ; 

An'  when  she  don't  you're  awful  glad, 
An'  den  you're  good,  oh,  my ! 

At  night,  she  take  ze  softest  hand, 

An'  lays  it  on  your  head, 
An'  says  "  Be  off  to  Sleepy- Land 

By  way  o'  trundle-bed." 

So  when  you  fink  what  muvver  knows 

An'  aunts  an'  uncle  tan't, 
It  skeers  a  feller  ;  ist  suppose 

His  muvver  'd  been  a  aunt. 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


315 


DAY 

The  gray  dawn  on  the  mountain  top 

Is  slow  to  pass  away. 
Still  lays  him  by  in  sluggish  dreams, 

The  golden  God  of  day. 

And  then  a  light  along  the  hills, 
Your  laughter  silvery  gay ; 

The  Sun  God  wakes,  a  bluebird  trills, 
You  come  and  it  is  day. 


TO  DAN 

Step  me  now  a  bridal  measure, 
Work  give  way  to  love  and  leisure, 
Hearts  be  free  and  hearts  be  gay  — 
Doctor  Dan  doth  wed  to-day. 

Diagnosis,  cease  your  squalling  - 
Check  that  scalpel's  senseless  bawling, 
Put  that  ugly  knife  away  — 
Doctor  Dan  doth  wed  to-day. 

Tis  no  time  for  things  unsightly, 
Life's  the  day  and  life  goes  lightly ; 
Science  lays  aside  her  sway  — 
Love  rules  Dr.  Dan  to-day. 

Gather,  gentlemen  and  ladies, 
For  the  nuptial  feast  now  made  is, 
Swing  your  garlands,  chant  your  lay 
For  the  pair  who  wed  to  day. 

Wish  them  happy  days  and  many, 
Troubles  few  and  griefs  not  any, 
Lift  your  brimming  cups  and  say 
God  bless  them  who  wed  to-day. 

Then  a  cup  to  Cupid  daring, 
Who  for  conquest  ever  faring, 
With  his  arrows  dares  assail 
E'en  a  doctor's  coat  of  mail. 

So  with  blithe  and  happy  hymning 
And  with  harmless  goblets  brimming, 
Dance  a  step — musicians  play  — 
Doctor  Dan  doth  wed  to-day. 


WHAT'S  THE  USE 

What's  the  use  o*  folks  a-frownin* 
When  the  way's  a  little  rough  ? 

Frowns  lay  out  the  road  fur  smilin' 
You'll  be  wrinkled  soon  enough. 
What's  the  use  ? 


What's  the  use  o'  folks  a-sighin'  ? 

It's  an  awful  waste  o'  breath, 
An'  a  body  can't  stand  wastin* 

What  he  needs  so  bad  in  death. 
What's  the  use  ? 


What's  the  use  o'  even  weepin'  ? 

Might  as  well  go  long  an'  smile. 
Life,  our  longest,  strongest  arrow, 

Only  lasts  a  little  while. 
What's  the  use  ? 


A  LAZY  DAY 

The  trees  bend  down  along  the  stream, 
Where  anchored  swings  my  tiny  boat. 

The  day  is  one  to  drowse  and  dream 
And  list  the  thrush's  throttling  note. 

When  music  from  his  bosom  bleeds 

Among  the  river's  rustling  reeds. 

No  ripple  stirs  the  placid  pool, 
When  my  adventurous  line  is  cast, 

A  truce  to  sport,  while  clear  and  cool, 
The  mirrored  clouds  slide  softly  past. 

The  sky  gives  back  a  blue  divine, 

And  all  the  world's  wide  wealth  is  mine. 

A  pickerel  leaps,  a  bow  of  light, 

The  minnows  shine  from  side  to  side. 

The  first  faint  breeze  comes  up  the  tide  — 

I  pause  with  half  uplifted  oar, 

While  night  drifts  down  to  claim  the  shore. 


LIMITATIONS 

Ef  you's  only  got  de  powah  fe'  to  blow  a 

little  whistle, 

Keep  ermong  de  people  wid  de  whistles. 
Ef  you  don't,  you'll  fin'  out  sho'tly  dat 

you's  th'owed  yo'  fines'  feelin' 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


In  a  place  dat's  all  a  bed  o'  thistles. 
'Tain't  no  use  a-goin'  now,  ez  sho's  you  bo'n, 
A-squeakin'  of  yo'   whistle  'g'inst  a  gread 
big  ho'n. 

Ef  you   ain't   got   but   a   teenchy   bit   o' 

victuals  on  de  table, 
Whut's  de  use  a-claimin'  hit's  a  feas'  ? 
Fe'  de  folks  is  mighty  'spicious,  an'  dey's 

ap*  to  come  a-peerin', 
Lookin'  fe'  de  scraps  you  leP  at  leas'. 
Wen  de  meal's  a-hidin'  f  om  de  meal-bin's 

•  top, 

You  needn't  talk  to  hide  it ;  ef  you  sta'ts, 
des  stop. 

Ef  yo'  min'  kin  only  carry  half  a  pint  o' 

common  idees, 

Don'  go  roun'  a-sayin'  hit's  a  bar'l ; 
'Ca'se    de  people  gwine  to  test  you,  an' 

dey'll  fin'  out  you's  a-lyin', 
Den  dey'll  twis'  yo'  sayin's  in  a  snarl. 
Wuss    t'ing    in   de   country   dat   I   evah 

hyahed  — 
A.    crow    dot    sat    a-squawkin',    "  I's    a 

mockin'-bird." 


A  GOLDEN  DAY 

I  found  you  and  I  lost  you, 
All  on  a  gleaming  day. 

The  day  was  filled  with  sunshine, 
And  the  land  was  full  of  May. 

A  golden  bird  was  singing 

Its  melody  divine, 
I  found  you  and  I  loved  you, 

And  all  the  world  was  mine. 

I  found  you  and  I  lost  you, 

All  on  a  golden  day, 
But  when  I  dream  of  you,  dear, 

It  is  always  brimming  May. 


THE  UNLUCKY  APPLE 

'Twas  the  apple  that  in  Eden 
Caused  our  father's  primal  fall ; 

And  the  Trojan  War,  remember  — 
'Twas  an  apple  caused  it  all. 


So  for  weeks  I've  hesitated, 
You  can  guess  the  reason  why, 

For    I  want  to  tell  my  darling 
She's  the  apple  of  my  eye. 


PUTTIN'  THE  BABY  AWAY 

Eight  of  'em  hyeah  all  tol'  an'  yet 
Dese  eyes  o  *nine  is  wringin'  wet ; 
My  haht's  a-achin'  ha'd  an'  so', 
De  way  hit  nevah  ached  befo' ; 
My  soul's  a-pleadin',  •«  Lawd  give  back 
Dis  little  lonesome  baby  black, 
Dis  one,  dis  las'  po'  he'pless  one 
Whose  little  race  was  too  soon  run." 

Po'  Little  Jim,  des  fo'  yeahs'  ol* 
A-layin'  down  so  still  an'  col'. 
Somehow  hit  don'  seem  ha'dly  faih, 
To  have  my  baby  lyinf  daih 
Wi'dout  a  smile  upon  his  face, 
Wi'dout  a  look  erbout  de  place ; 
He  ust  to  be  so  full  o'  fun 
Hit  don'  seem  right  dat  all's  done,  done. 

Des  eight  in  all  but  I  don'  caih, 

Dey  wa'nt  a  single  one  to  spaih ; 

De  worl'  was  big,  so  was  my  haht, 

An'  dis  hyeah  baby  owned  hits  paht ; 

De  house  was  po',  dey  clothes  was  rough, 

But  daih  was  meat  an'  meal  enough ; 

An'  daih  was  room  fu'  little  Jim ; 

Oh  !  Lawd,  what  made  you  call  fu'  him  ? 

It  do  seem  monst'ous  ha'd  to-day, 
To  lay  dis  baby  boy  away ; 
I'd  learned  to  love  his  teasin'  smile, 
He  mought  o'  des  been  lef  erwhile ; 
You  wouldn't  fought  wid  all  de  folks, 
Dat's  roun'  hyeah  mixin*  teahs  an'  jokes, 
De  Lawd  u'd  had  de  time  to  see 
Dis  chile  an'  tek  him  'way  Pom  me. 

But  let  it  go,  I  reckon  Jim, 

'11  des  go  right  straight  up  to  him 

Dat  took  him  Pom  his  mammy's  nest 

An'  leP  dis  achin'  in  my  breas', 

An'  lookin'  in  dat  fathah's  face 

An'  'memberin'  dis  lone  sorrerin'  place, 

He'll  say,  "  Good  Lawd,  you  ought  to  had 

Do  sumpin'  fu'  to  comfo't  dad !  " 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


ADVICE 

Wen  you  full  o'  worry 

'Bout  yo'  wo'k  an'  sich, 
Wen  you  kind  o'  bothered 

Case  you  can't  get  rich, 
An'  yo'  neighboh  p'ospah 

Past  his  jest  desu'ts, 
An'  de  sneer  of  comerds 

Stuhes  yo'  heaht  an'  hu'ts, 
Des  don'  pet  yo'  worries, 

Lay  'em  on  de  she'f, 
Tek  a  little  trouble 

Brothah,  wid  yo'se'f. 

Ef  a  frien'  comes  mou'nin' 

'Bout  his  awful  case, 
You  know  you  don'  grieve  him 

Wid  a  gloomy  face, 
But  you  wrassle  wid  him, 

Try  to  tek  him  in ; 
Dough  hit  cracks  yo'  features, 

Law,  you  smile  lak  sin, 
Ain't  you  good  ez  he  is  ? 

Don'  you  pine  to  def ; 
Tek  a  little  trouble 

Brothah,  wid  yo'se'f. 

Ef  de  chillun  pestahs, 

An'  de  baby's  bad, 
Ef  yo'  wife  gits  narvous, 

An'  you're  gettin'  mad, 
Des  you  grab  yo'  boot-strops, 

Hoi'  yo'  body  down, 
Stop  a-t'inkin'  cuss-w'rds, 

Chase  away  de  frown, 
Knock  de  haid  o'  worry, 

Twell  dey  ain'  none  lef ; 
Tek  a  little  trouble, 

Brothah,  wid  yo'se'f. 


THE  DISCOVERY 

These  are  the  days  of  elfs  and  fays : 
Who  says  that  with  the  dreams  of  myth, 
These  imps  and  elves  disport  themselves  ? 
Ah  no,  along  the  paths  of  song 
Do  all  the  tiny  folk  belong. 

Round  all  our  homes, 

Kobolds  and  gnomes  do  daily  cling, 


Then  nightly  fling  their  lanterns  out. 
And  shout  on  shout,  they  join  the  rout, 
And  sing,  and  sing,  within  the  sweet  en- 
chanted ring. 

Where  gleamed  the  guile  of  moonlight's 

smile, 

Once  paused  I,  listening  for  a  while, 
And  heard  the  lay,  unknown  by  day, — 
The  fairies'  dancing  roundelay. 

Queen    Mab  was  there,  her  shimmering 

hair 

Each  fairy  prince's  heart's  despair. 
She  smiled  to  see  their  sparkling  glee, 
And  once  I  ween,  she  smiled  at  me. 

Since  when,  you  may  by  night  or  day, 
Dispute  the  sway  of  elf-folk  gay  ; 
But,  hear  me,  stay ! 

I've  learned  the  way  to  find  Queen  Mab 
and  elf  and  fay. 

Where'er  by  streams,  the  moonlight  gleams, 
Or  on  meadow  softly  beams, 
There,  footing  round  on  dew-lit  ground, 
The  fairy  folk  may  all  be  found. 


MORNING 

The  mist  has  left  the  greening  plain, 
The  dew-drops  shine  like  fairy  rain, 
The  coquette  rose  awakes  again 

Her  lovely  self  adorning. 
The  Wind  is  hiding  in  the  trees, 
A  sighing,  soothing,  laughing  tease, 
Until  the  rose  says,  "  Kiss  me,  please," 

'Tis  morning,  'tis  morning. 

With  staff  in  hand  and  careless  free, 
The  wanderer  fares  right  jauntily, 
For  towns  and  houses  are,  thinks  he, 

For  scorning,  for  scorning. 
My  soul  is  swift  upon  the  wing, 
And  in  its  deeps  a  song  I  bring ; 
Come,  Love,  and  we  together  sing, 

"'Tis  morning,  'tis  morning." 


320 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


THE  AWAKENING 

I  did  not  know  that  life  could  be  so  sweet, 
I  did  not  know  the  hours  could  speed  so 

fleet, 

Till  I  knew  you,  and  life  was  sweet  again. 
The  days  grew  brief  with  love  and  lack  of 

pain  — 

I  was  a  slave  a  few  short  days  ago, 

The  powers  of  Kings  and  Princes  now  I 

know ; 

I  would  not  be  again  in  bondage,  save 
I  had  your  smile,  the  liberty  I  crave. 


LOVE'S  DRAFT 

The  draft  of  love  was  cool  and  sweet 

You  gave  me  in  the  cup, 
But,  ah,  love's  fire  is  keen  and  fleet, 

And  I  am  burning  up. 

Unless  the  tears  I  shed  for  you 
Shall  quench  this  burning  flame. 

It  will  consume  me  through  and  through, 
And  leave  but  ash — a  name. 


A  MUSICAL 

Outside  the  rain  upon  the  street, 
The  sky  all  grim  of  hue, 

Inside,  the  music-painful  sweet, 
And  yet  I  heard  but  you. 

As  is  a  thrilling  violin, 
So  is  your  voice  to  me 

And  still  above  the  other  strains, 
It  sajig  in  ecstasy. 


TWELL  DE  NIGHT  IS  PAS' 

All  de  night  long  twell  de  moon  goes  down, 

Lovin*  I  set  at  huh  feet, 
Den  fu'  de  long  jou'ney  back  fom  de  town, 

Ha'd,  but  de  dreams  mek  it  sweet. 

All  de  night  long  twell  de  break  of  de  day, 

Dreamin'  agin  in  my  sleep, 
Mandy  comes  drivin'  my  sorrers  away, 

Axin'  me, "  Wha'  fu'  you  weep  ?  " 


All  de  day  long  twell  de  sun  goes  down, 

Smilin',  I  ben*  to  my  hoe, 
Fu'  dough  de  weddah  git  nasty  an'  frown, 

One  place  I  know  I  kin  go. 

All  my  life  long  twell  de  night  has  pas' 

Let  de  wo'k  come  ez  it  will, 
So  dat  I  fin'  you,  my  honey,  at  las', 

Somewhaih  des  ovah  de  hill. 


AT  NIGHT 

Whut  time'd  dat  clock  strike  ? 

Nine  ?     No — eight; 

I  didn't  think  hit  was  so  late. 

Aer  chew  !     I  must  'a'  got  a  cough, 

I  raally  b'lieve  I  did  doze  off — 

Hit's  mighty  soothin'  to  de  tiah, 

A-dozin'  dis  way  by  de  fiah  ; 

00  oom — hit  feels  so  good  to  stretch 

1  sutny  is  one  weary  wretch  ! 

Look  hyeah,  dat  boy  done  gone  to  sleep! 
He  des  ain't  wo'th  his  boa'd  an'  keep; 
I  des  don't  b'lieve  he'd  bat  his  eyes 
If  Gab'el  called  him  fom  de  skies ! 
But  sleepin's  good  dey  ain't  no  doubt  — 
Dis  pipe  o'  mine  is  done  gone  out. 
Don't  bu'n  a  minute,  bless  my  soul, 
Des  please  to  han'  me  dat  ah  coal. 

You  'Lias  git  up  now,  my  son, 
Seems  lak  my  nap  is  des  begun ; 
You  sutny  mus'  ma'k  down  de  day 
Wen  I  treats  comp'ny  dis  away ! 
W'y,  Brother  Jones,  dat  drowse  come  on, 
An'  laws  !     I  dremp  dat  you  was  gone ! 
You  'Lias,  whaih  yo'  mannahs,  suh, 
To  hyeah  me  call  an'  nevah  stuh ! 

To-morrer  mo'nin'  w'en  I  call 
Dat  boy'll  be  sleepin'  to  beat  all, 
Don't  mek  no  diffunce  how  I  roah, 
He'll  des  lay  up  an'  sno'  and  sno'. 
Now  boy,  you  done  hyeahed  whut  I  said, 
You  bettah  tek  yo'se'f  yo'  baid, 
Case  ef  you  gits  me  good  an'  wrong 
I'll  mek  dat  sno'  a  diffunt  song. 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


321 


Dis  wood  fiah  is  invitin'  dho', 

Hit  seems  to  wa'm  de  ve'y  flo'  — 

An'  nuffin'  ain't  a  whit  ez  sweet, 

Ez  settin'  toastin'  of  yo'  feet. 

Hit  mek  you  drowsy,  too,  but  La ! 

Hyeah,  'Lias,  don't  you  hyeah  yo'  ma? 

Ef  I  gits  sta'ted  f 'om  dis  cheah 

I'  lay,  you  scamp,  I'll  mek  you  heah ! 

To-morrer  mo'nin'  I  kin  bawl 
Twell  all  de  neighbohs  hyeah  me  call ; 
An'  you'll  be  snoozin'  des  ez  deep 
Ez  if  de  day  was  made  fu*  sleep ; 
Hit's  funny  when  you  got  a  cough 
Somehow  yo'  voice  seems  too  fu'  off  — 
Can't  wake  dat  boy  fu'  all  I  say, 
I  reckon  he'll  sleep  daih  twell  day  ! 


KIDNAPPED 

I  held  my  heart  so  far  from  harm, 
I  let  it  wander  far  and  free 

In  mead  and  mart,  without  alarm, 
Assured  it  must  come  back  to  me. 

And  all  went  well  till  on  a  day, 
Learned  Dr.  Cupid  wandered  by 

A  search  along  our  sylvan  way 
For  some  peculiar  butterfly. 

A  flash  of  wings,  a  hurried  drive, 
A  flutter  and  a  short-lived  flit ; 

This  Scientist,  as  I  am  alive 

Had  seen  my  heart  and  captured  it. 

Right  tightly  now  'tis  held  among 
The  specimens  that  he  has  trapped, 

And  sings  (oh,  love  is  ever  young), 
'Tis  passing  sweet  to  be  kidnapped. 


COMPENSATION 

Because  I  had  loved  so  deeply, 
Because  I  had  loved  so  long, 

'God  in  his  great  compassion 
Gave  me  the  gift  of  song. 

Because  I  have  loved  so  vainly, 
And  sung  with  such  faltering 
breath, 

18 


The  Master  in  infinite  mercy 
Offers  the  boon  of  Death. 


WINTER'S  APPROACH 

De  sun  hit  shine  an'  de  win'  hit  blow, 
Ol'  Brer  Rabbit  be  a-layin'  low, 

He     know     dat     de    wintah     time 

a-comin', 

De  huntah  man  he  walk  an'  wait, 
He  walk  right  by  Brer  Rabbit's  gate  — 

He  know  — 

De  dog  he  lick  his  sliverin'  chop, 
An'  he   tongue    'gin'   his   mouf  go   flop, 
flop  — 

He  — 

He  rub  his  nose  fu'  to  clah  his  scent 
So's  to  tell  w'ich  way  dat  cotton-tail  went, 

He  — 


De  huntah's  wife  she  set  an'  spin 

A  good  wahm  coat  fu'  to  wrop  him  in 

She  — 
She  look  at  de  skillet  an'  she  smile,  oh 

my ! 
An'  ol'  Brer  Rabbit  got  to  sholy  fly. 

Dey  know. 


ANCHORED 

If  thro'  the  sea  of  night  which  here  sur- 
rounds me, 
I  could  swim  out  beyond  the  farthest 

star, 
Break  every  barrier  of  circumstance  thaf 

bounds  me, 
And  greet  the  Sun  of  sweeter  life  afar, 

Tho'  near  you  there  is  passion,  grief,  and 

sorrow, 
And  out  there  rest  and  joy  and  peace 

and  all, 

I  should  renounce  that  beckoning  for  to- 
morrow, 

I  could  not  choose  to  go  beyond  your 
call. 


322 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


THE  VETERAN 

Underneath  the  autumn  sky, 
Haltingly,  the  lines  go  by. 
Ah,  would  steps  were  blithe  and  gay, 
As  when  first  they  marched  away, 
Smile  on  lip  and  curl  on  brow, — 
Only  white-faced  gray-beards  now, 
Standing  on  life's  outer  verge, 
E'en  the  marches  sound  a  dirge. 


Blow,  you  bugles,  play,  you  fife, 
Rattle,  drums,  for  dearest  life. 
Let  the  flags  wave  freely  so, 
As  the  marching  legions  go, 
Shout,  hurrah  and  laugh  and  jest, 
This  is  memory  at  its  best. 
(Did  you  notice  at  your  quip, 
That  old  comrade's  quivering  lip  ?) 


Ah,  I  see  them  as  they  come, 
Stumbling  with  the  rumbling  drum ; 
But  a  sight  more  sad  to  me 
E'en  than  these  ranks  could  be 
Was  that  one  with  cane  upraised 
Who  stood  by  and  gazed  and  gazed, 
Trembling,  solemn,  lips  compressed, 
Longing  to  be  with  the  rest. 


Did  he  dream  of  old  alarms, 
As  he  stood,  "  presented  arms  "  ? 
Did  he  think  of  field  and  camp 
And  the  unremitting  tramp 
Mile  on  mile — the  lonely  guard 
When  he  kept  his  midnight  ward  ? 
Did  he  dream  of  wounds  and  scars 
In  that  bitter  war  of  wars  ? 


What  of  that  ?     He  stood  and  stands 
In  my  memory — trembling  hands, 
Whitened  beard  and  cane  and  all 
As  if  waiting  for  the  call 
Once  again :  "  To  arms,  my  sons," 
And  his  ears  hear  far-off  guns, 
Roll  of  cannon  and  the  tread 
Of  the  legions  of  the  Dead ! 


BLUE 

Standin*  at  de  winder, 

Feelin'  kind  o'  glum, 
Listenin'  to  de  rain-drops 

Play  de  kettle  drum, 
Lookin'  crost  de  medders 

Swimmin'  lak  a  sea ; 
Lawd  'a'  mussy  on  us, 

What's  de  good  o'  me  ? 

Can't  go  out  a-hoein', 

Wouldn't  ef  I  could ; 
Groun'  too  wet  fu'  huntin', 

Fishin'  ain't  no  good. 
Too  much  noise  fo'  sleepin', 

No  one  hyeah  to  chat ; 
Des  mus'  stan'  an'  listen 

To  dat  pit-a-pat. 

Hills  is  gittin'  misty, 

Valley's  gittin'  dahk ; 
Watch-dog's  'mence  a-howlin', 

Rathah  have  'em  ba'k 
Dan  a-moanin'  solemn 

Somewhaih  out  o'  sight ; 
Rain-crow  des  a-chucklin'  — 

Dis  is  his  delight. 

Mandy,  bring  my  banjo, 

Bring  de  chillen  in, 
Come  in  f  om  de  kitchen, 

I  feel  sick  ez  sin. 
Call  in  Uncle  Isaac, 

Call  Aunt  Hannah,  too, 
Tain't  no  use  in  talkin', 

Chile,  I's  sholy  blue. 


DREAMIN'  TOWN 

Come  away  to  dreamin'  town, 

Mandy  Lou,  Mandy  Lou, 
Whaih  de  skies  don'  nevah  frown, 

Mandy  Lou ; 

Whaih  de  streets  is  paved  with  gol', 
Whaih  de  days  is  nevah  col', 
An*  no  sheep  strays  f  om  de  fol', 
Mandy  Lou. 

Ain't  you  tiahed  of  every  day, 
Mandy  Lou,  Mandy  Lou, 


CHILE,  Fs  SHOLY  BLUE 


IN  DAT  DREAMLAND  OF  DELIGHT 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


325 


Tek  my  ban'  an'  come  away, 

Mandy  Lou, 

To  the  place  whaih  dreams  is  King, 
Whaih  my  heart  hoi's  everything, 
An'  my  soul  can  allus  sing, 

Mandy  Lou. 

Come  away  to  dream  wid  me, 

Mandy  Lou,  Mandy  Lou, 
Whaih  our  hands  an'  hea'ts  are  free, 

Mandy  Lou; 

Whaih  de  sands  is  shinin'  white, 
In  dat  dreamland  of  delight, 
Whaih  de  rivahs  glistens  bright, 
Mandy  Lou. 

Come  away  to  dreamland  town, 

Mandy  Lou,  Mandy  Lou, 
Whaih  de  fruit  is  bendin'  down, 

Des  fu'  you. 

Smooth  your  brow  of  lovin'  brown, 
An'  my  love  will  be  its  crcwn ; 
Come  away  to  dreamin'  town, 

Mandy  Lou. 


YESTERDAY  AND  TO-MORROW 

Yesterday  I  held  your  hand, 
Reverently  I  pressed  it, 

And  its  gentle  yieldingness 
From  my  soul  I  blessed  it. 

But  to-day  I  sit  alone, 

Sad  and  sore  repining ; 
Must  our  gold  forever  know 

Flames  for  the  refining  ? 

Yesterday  I  walked  with  you, 
Could  a  day  be  sweeter  ? 

Life  was  all  a  lyric  song 
Set  to  tricksy  meter. 

Ah,  to-day  is  like  a  dirge, — 
Place  my  arms  around  you, 

Let  me  feel  the  same  dear  joy 
As  when  first  I  found  you. 

Let  me  once  retrace  my  steps, 
From  these  roads  unpleasant, 

Let  my  heart  and  mind  and  soul 
All  ignore  the  present. 


Yesterday  the  iron  seared 
And  to-day  means  sorrow. 

Pause,  my  soul,  arise,  arise, 

Look  where  gleams  the  morrow. 


THE  CHANGE 

Love  used  to  carry  a  bow,  you  know, 

But  now  he  carries  a  taper ; 
It  is  either  a  length  of  wax  aglow, 

Or  a  twist  of  lighted  paper. 

I  pondered  a  little  about  the  scamp, 

And  then  I  decided  to  follow 
His  wandering  journey  to  field  and  camp, 

Up  hill,  down  dale  or  hollow. 

I  dogged  the  rollicking,  gay,  young  blade 

In  every  species  of  weather ; 
Till,  leading  me  straight  to  the  home  of  a 

maid 
He  left  us  there  together. 

And  then  I  saw  it,  oh,  sweet  surprise, 

The  taper  it  set  a-burning 
The  love-light  brimming  my  lady's  eyes, 

And  my  heart  with  the  fire  of  yearning. 


THE  CHASE 

The  wind  told  the  little  leaves  to  hurry, 
And  chased  them  down  the  way, 

While  the   mother  tree  laughed  loud  in 

glee, 
For  she  thought  her  babes  at  play. 

The    cruel  wind    and   the   rain  laughed 

loudly, 

We'll  bury  them  deep,  they  said, 
And  the  old  tree  grieves,  and  the  little 

leaves 
Lie  low,  all  chilled  and  dead. 


SUPPOSE 

If  'twere  fair  to  suppose 

That  your  heart  were  not  taken, 
That  the  dew  from  the  rose 

Petals  still  were  not  shaken, 
I  should  pluck  you, 


326 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


Howe'er  you   should    thorn    me    and 

scorn  me, 

And  wear  you  for  life  as  the  green  of  the 
bower. 

If  'twere  fair  to  suppose 

That  that  road  was  for  vagrants, 
That  the  wind  and  the  rose, 

Counted  all  in  their  fragrance ; 
Oh,  my  dear  one, 

My  love,  I  should  take  you  and   make 

you, 

The  green  of  my  life  from  the  scintillant 
hour. 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  FIRST-BORN 

Cover  him  over  with  daisies  white, 
And  eke  with  the  poppies  red, 

Sit  with  me  here  by  his  couch  to-night, 
For  the  First-Born,  Love,  is  dead. 

Poor  little  fellow,  he  seemed  so  fair 
As  he  lay  in  my  jealous  arms ; 

Silent  and  cold  he  is  lying  there 
Stripped  of  his  darling  charms. 

Lusty  and  strong  he  had  grown  forsooth, 

Sweet  with  an  infinite  grace, 
Proud    in   the   force    of    his    conquering 
youth, 

Laughter  alight  in  his  face. 

Oh,  but  the  blast,  it  was  cruel  and  keen, 
And  ah,  but  the  chill  it  was  rare ; 

The  look  of  the  winter-kissed  flow'r  you've 

seen 
When  meadows  and  fields  were  bare. 

Can  you  not  wake  from  this  white,  cold 
sleep 

And  speak  to  me  once  again  ? 
True  that  your  slumber  is  deep,  so  deep, 

But  deeper  by  far  is  my  pain. 

Cover  him  over  with  daisies  white, 
And  eke  with  the  poppies  red, 

Sit  with  me  here  by  his  couch  to-night, 
For  the  First-Born,  Love,  is  dead. 


BEIN'  BACK  HOME 

Wearying  of  his  losing  battle  for  health, 
assured  that  his  days  were  numbered,  and 
too  weak  to  continue  his  literary  labors, 
poor  Paul  Dunbar  went  home  to  Dayton 
to  die. 

Show  me  another,  who,  under  such 
heart-breaking  conditions,  could  have 
written  such  a  poem  as  "  Bein'  Back 
Home." 

The  old  settee  to  which  he  refers  in  the 
fourth  stanza,  actually  exists,  and  was  the 
poet's  favorite  seat.  His  mother  counts 
it  among  the  most  precious  relics  of  her 
son. 

Home  agin,  an'  home  to  stay  — 
Yes,  it's  nice  to  be  away. 
Plenty  things  to  do  an'  see, 
But  the  old  place  seems  to  me 
Jest  about  the  proper  thing. 
Mebbe  'ts  'cause  the  mem'ries  cling 
Closer  'round  yore  place  o'  birth 
'N  ary  other  spot  on  earth. 

W'y  it's  nice  jest  settin'  here, 
Lookin'  out  an'  seein'  clear, 
Thout  no  smoke,  ner  dust,  ner  haze 
In  these  sweet  October  days. 
What's  as  good  as  that  there  lane, 
Kind  o'  browned  from  last  night's  rain  ? 
'Pears  like  home  has  got  the  start 
When  the  goal's  a  feller's  heart. 

What's  as  good  as  that  there  jay 
Screechin'  up'ards  towards  the  gray 
Skies  ?     An'  tell  me,  what's  as  fine 
As  that  full-leafed  pumpkin  vine  ? 
Tow'rin'  buildin's— yes,  they're  good  ; 
But  in  sight  o'  field  and  wood, 
Then  a  feller  understand 
'Bout  the  house  not  made  with  han's. 

Let  the  others  rant  an'  roam  . 
When  they  git  away  from  home  ; 
Jest  gi'  me  my  old  settee 
An'  my  pipe  beneath  a  tree  ; 
Sight  o'  medders  green  an'  still, 
Now  and  then  a  gentle  hill, 
Apple  orchards,  full  o'  fruit, 
Nigh  a  cider  press  to  boot  — 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


327 


That's  the  thing  jest  done  up  brown 
D'want  to  be  too  nigh  to  town  ; 
Want  to  have  the  smells  an'  sights, 
An'  the  dreams  o'  long  still  nights, 
With  the  friends  you  used  to  know 
In  the  keerless  long  ago  — 
Same  old  cronies,  same  old  folks, 
Same  old  cider,  same  old  jokes. 

Say,  it's  nice  a-gittin'  back, 
When  yore  pulse  is  growin'  slack, 
An'  yore  breath  begins  to  wheeze 
Like  a  fair-set  valley  breeze  ; 
Kind  o'  nice  to  set  aroun' 
On  the  old  familiar  groun', 
Knowin'  that  when  Death  does  come, 
That  he'll  find  you  right  at  home. 


DESPAIR 

Let  me  close  the  eyes  of  my  soul 

That  I  may  not  see 
What  stands  between  thee  and  me. 

Let  me  shut  the  ears  of  my  heart 

That  I  may  not  hear 
A  voice  that  drowns  yours,  my  dear. 

Let  me  cut  the  cords  of  my  life, 

Of  my  desolate  being, 
Since  cursed  is  my  hearing  and  seeing. 


CIRCUMSTANCES  ALTER  CASES 

Tim  Murphy's  gon*  walkin*  wid  Maggie 
O'Neill, 

O  chone ! 

If  I  was  her  muther,  I'd  frown  on  sich 
foolin', 

O  chone ! 

I'm  sure  it's  unmutherlike,  darin'  an'  wrong 
To  let  a  gyrul  hear  tell  the  sass  an*  the 

song 

Of  every  young  felly  that  happens  along, 
O  chone ! 

An*  Murphy,  the  things  that's  be'n  sed  of 
his  doin', 

O  chone ! 


'Tis  a  cud  that  no  decent  folks  want  to  be 

chewin', 

O  chone  ! 
If  he  came  to  my  door  wid  his  cane  on  a 

twirl, 
Fur  to  thry  to  make  love  to  you,  Biddy, 

my  girl, 
Ah,   wouldn't   I   send   him  away  wid  a 

whirl, 

O  chone ! 

They  say  the   gossoon  is  indecent  and 
dirty, 

O  chone ! 
In  spite  of  his  dressin'  so. 

O  chone ! 
Let  him  dress  up  ez  foine  ez  a  king  or  a 

queen, 
Let  him  put  on  more  wrinkles  than  ever 

was  seen, 

You'll  be  sure  he's  no  match  for  my  little 
colleen, 

O  chone ! 

Faith   the   two  is  comin'  back  an*  their 
walk  is  all  over, 

O  chone ! 

'Twas  a  pretty  short  walk  fur  to  take  wid 
a  lover, 

O  chone ! 
Why,   I    believe    that  Tim   Murphy's  a 

kumin'  this  way, 
Ah,  Biddy,  jest  look  at  him  steppin*  so 

gay. 

I'd  niver  belave  what  the  gossipers  say, 
O  chone ! 


He's  turned  in  the  gate  an'  he's  coming 
a-caperin', 

O  chone ! 

Go,  Biddy,  go  quick  an'  put  on  a  clane 
apern, 

O  chone ! 
Be  quick  as  ye  kin  fur  he's  right  at  the 

dure; 
Come  in,  master  Tim,  fur  ye're  welcome 

I'm  shure. 

We  were  talkin'  o'  ye  jest  a  minute  be- 
fore. 

O  chone I 


328 


THE  LIFE 'AND  WORKS 


TILL  THE  WIND  GETS  RIGHT 

Oh,  the  breeze  is  blowin'  balmy 

And  the  sun  is  in  a  haze  ; 
There's  a  cloud  jest  givin'  coolness, 

To  the  laziest  of  days. 
There  are  crowds  upon  the  lakeside, 

But  the  fish  refuse  to  bite, 
So  I'll  wait  and  go  a-fishin' 

When  the  wind  gets  right. 


Now  my  boat  tugs  at  her  anchor, 

Eager  now  to  kiss  the  spray, 
While  the  little  waves  are  callin' 

Drowsy  sailor  come  away, 
There's  a  harbor  for  the  happy, 

And  its  sheen  is  just  in  sight, 
But  I  won't  set  sail  to  get  there, 

Till  the  wind  gets  right. 


That's  my  trouble,  too,  I  reckon, 

I've  been  waitin'  all  too  long, 
Tho'  the  days  were  always  bright 

Still  the  wind  is  always  wrong. 
An'  when  Gabriel  blows  his  trumpet, 

In  the  day  o'  in  the  night, 
I  will  still  be  found  waitin', 

Till  the  wind  gets  right. 


A  SUMMER  NIGHT 

Summah  is  de  lovin'  time  — 

Do'  keer  what  you  say. 
Night  is  allus  peart  an'  prime, 

Bettah  dan  de  day. 
Do  de  day  is  sweet  an'  good, 

Birds  a-singin*  fine, 
Pines  a-smellin'  in  de  wood, — 

But  de  night  is  mine. 

Rivah  whisperin'  "  howdy  do," 

Ez  it  pass  you  by  — 
Moon  a-lookin'  down  at  you, 

Winkin*  on  de  sly. 
Frogs  a-croakin'  f  om  de  pon', 

Singin'  bass  dey  fill, 
An'  you  listen  way  beyon* 

Ol'  man  whippo'will. 


Hush  up,  honey,  tek  my  han', 

Mek  yo'  footsteps  light ; 
Somep'n'  kin'  o'  hoi's  de  Ian' 

On  a  summah  night. 
Somep'n'  dat  you  nevah  sees 

An'  you  nevah  hyeahs, 
But  you  feels  it  in  de  breeze, 

Somep'n'  nigh  to  teahs. 


Somep'n'  nigh  to  teahs  ?  dat's  so  ; 

But  hit's  nigh  to  smiles. 
An'  you  feels  it  ez  you  go 

Down  de  shinin'  miles. 
Tek  my  han',  my  little  dove ; 

Hush  an'  come  erway  — 
Summah  is  de  time  fu'  love, 

Night-time  beats  de  day ! 


AT  SUNSET  TIME 

A  down  the  west  a  golden  glow 

Sinks  burning  in  the  sea, 
And  all  the  dreams  of  long  ago 

Come  flooding  back  to  me. 
The  past  has  writ  a  story  strange 

Upon  my  aching  heart, 
But  time  has  wrought  a  subtle  change, 

My  wounds  have  ceased  to  smart. 


No  more  the  quick  delight  of  youth, 

No  more  the  sudden  pain, 
I  look  no  more  for  trust  or  truth 

Where  greed  may  compass  gain. 
What,  was  it  I  who  bared  my  heart 

Through  unrelenting  years, 
And  knew  the  sting  of  misery's  dart, 

The  tang  of  sorrow's  tears  ? 


'Tis  better  now,  I  do  not  weep, 

I  do  not  laugh  nor  care ; 
My  soul  and  spirit  half  asleep 

Drift  aimless  everywhere. 
We  float  upon  a  sluggish  stream, 

We  ride  no  rapids  mad, 
While  life  is  all  a  tempered  dream 

And  every  joy  half  sad. 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


329 


NIGHT 

Silence,  and  whirling  worlds  afar 
Through  all  encircling  skies. 

What  floods  come  o'er  the  spirit's  bar, 
What  wondrous  thoughts  arise. 

The  earth,  a  mantle  falls  away, 
And,  winged,  we  leave  the  sod ; 

Where  shines  in  its  eternal  sway 
The  majesty  of  God. 


AT  LOAFING-HOLT 

Since  I  left  the  city's  heat 
For  this  sylvan,  cool  retreat, 
High  upon  the  hillside  here 
Where  the  air  is  clean  and  clear, 
I  have  lost  the  urban  ways. 
Mine  are  calm  and  tranquil  days, 
Sloping  lawns  of  green  are  mine, 
Clustered  treasures  of  the  vine  ; 
Long  forgotten  plants  I  know, 
Where  the  best  wild  berries  grow, 
Where  the  greens  and  grasses  sprout, 
When  the  elders  blossom  out. 
Now  I  am  grown  weather-wise 
With  the  lore  of  winds  and  skies. 
Mine  the  song  whose  soft  refrain 
Is  the  sigh  of  summer  rain. 
Seek  you  where  the  woods  are  cool, 
Would  you  know  the  shady  pool 
Where,  throughout  the  lazy  day, 
Speckled  beauties  drowse  or  play  ? 
Would  you  find  in  rest  or  peace 
Sorrow's  permanent  release  ?  — 
Leave  the  city,  grim  and  gray, 
Come  with  me,  ah,  come  away. 
Do  you  fear  the  winter  chill, 
Deeps  of  snow  upon  the  hill  ? 
'Tis  a  mantle,  kind  and  warm, 
Shielding  tender  shoots  from  harm. 
Do  you  dread  the  ice-clad  streams, — 
They  are  mirrors  for  your  dreams. 
Here's  a  rouse,  when  summer's  past 
To  the  raging  winter's  blast. 
Let  him  roar  and  let  him  rout, 
We  are  armored  for  the  bout. 
How  the  logs  are  glowing,  see  ! 
Who  sings  louder,  they  or  he  ? 
Could  the  city  be  more  gay  ? 
Burn  your  bridges !     Come  away ! 


WHEN  A   FELLER'S    ITCHIN'   TO 
BE  SPANKED 

Wen  us  fellers  stomp  around,  makin'  lots 

o'  noise, 
Gramma    says,    "  There's    certain    times 

comes  to  little  boys 
W'en  they  need  a  shingle  or  the  soft  side 

of  a  plank;" 
She  says,  "we're  a-itchin*  for  a  right  good 

spank." 

An'  she  says,  "  Now  thes  you  wait, 
It's  a-comin' — soon  or  late, 
W'en  a  feller's  itchin'  fer  a  spank." 

W'en  a  feller's  out  o'  school,  you  know 

how  he  feels, 
Gramma  says  we  wriggle  'roun'  like  a  lot 

o'  eels. 
W'y  it's  like  a  man  that's  thes  home  from 

out  o'  jail. 
What's  the  use  o'  scoldin'  if  we  pull  Tray's 

tail? 

Gramma  says,  tho',  "  thes  you  wait, 
It's  a-comin' — soon  or  late, 
You'se    the     boys    that's    itchin'    to    be 

spanked." 


Cats  is  funny  creatures  an'  I  like  to  make 

'em  yowl, 
Gramma  alwus  looks  at  me  with  a  awful 

scowl 
An'  she  says,  "  Young  gentlemen,  mamma 

should  be  thanked 
Ef  you'd   get  your  knickerbockers  right 

well  spanked." 

An'  she  says,  "  Now  thes  you  wait, 
It's  a-comin' — soon  or  late," 
W'en  a  feller's  itchin'  to  be  spanked. 

Ef  you  fin*  the  days  is  gettin'  awful  hot  in 

school 
An'  you  know  a  swimmin'  place  where  it's 

nice  and  cool, 
Er  you  know  a  cat-fish  hole  brimmin'  full 

o'  fish, 
Whose  a-goin'  to  set  around  school  and 

wish? 

'Tain't  no  use  to  hide  your  bait, 
It's  a-comin' — soon  or  late, 
W'en  a  feller's  itchin'  to  be  spanked. 


330 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


Ol'  folks  know  most  ever'thing  'bout  the 

world,  I  guess, 
Gramma  does,  we  wish  she  knowed  thes  a 

little  less, 

But  I  alwus  kind  o'  think  it  'ud  be  as  well 
Ef  they  wouldn't  alwus  have  to  up  an' tell; 
We  kids  wish  'at  they'd  thes  wait, 
It's  a-comin' — soon  or  late, 
Wen  a  feller's  itchin'  to  be  spanked. 


THE  RIVER  OF  RUIN 

Along  by  the  river  of  ruin 
They  dally — the  thoughtless  ones, 
They  dance  and  they  dream 
By  the  side  of  the  stream, 
As  long  as  the  river  runs. 

It  seems  all  so  pleasant  and  cheery  — 

No  thought  of  the  morrow  is  theirs, 

And  their  faces  are  bright 

With  the  sun  of  delight, 

And  they  dream  of  no  night-brooding  cares. 

The  women  wear  garlanded  tresses, 

The  men  have  rings  on  their  hands, 

And  they  sing  in  their  glee, 

For  they  think  they  are  free  — 

They  that  know  not  the  treacherous  sands. 

Ah,  but  this  be  a  venturesome  journey, 

Forever  those  sands  are  ashrift, 

And  a  step  to  one  side 

Means  a  grasp  of  the  tide, 

And  the  current  is  fearful  and  swift. 

For  once  in  the  river  of  ruin, 

What  boots  it,  to  do  or  to  dare, 

For  down  we  must  go 

In  the  turbulent  flow, 

To  the  desolate  sea  of  Despair. 


TO  HER 

Your  presence  like  a  benison  to  me 
Wakes  my  sick  soul  to  dreamful  ecstasy, 
I  fancy  that  some  old  Arabian  night 
Saw  you   my  houri   and   my  heart's  de- 
light. 


And  wandering  forth  beneath  the  passion- 
ate moon, 

Your  love-strung  zither  and  my  soul  in 
tune, 

We  knew  the  joy,  the  haunting  of  the 
pain 

That  like  a  flame  thrills  through  me  now 
again. 

To-night   we   sit  where    sweet  the   spice 

winds  blow, 
A  wind  the  northland  lacks  and  ne'er 

shall  know, 

With  clasped  hands  and  spirits  all  aglow 
-  As  in  Arabia  in  the  long  ago. 


A  LOVE  LETTER 

Oh,  I  des  received  a  letter  fom  de  sweet- 
est little  gal ; 

Oh,  my  ;  oh,  my. 

She's  my  lovely  little  sweetheart  an'  her 
name  is  Sal : 

Oh,  my ;  oh,  my. 

She  writes  me  dat  she  loves  me,  an*  she 

loves  me  true, 
She  wonders  ef  I'll  tell  huh  dat   I  loves 

huh  too ; 
An'  my  heaht's  so  full  o'  music  dat  I  do' 

know  what  to  do ; 
Oh,  my ;  oh,  my. 

I  got  a  man  to  read  it  an'  he  read  it  fine ; 

Oh,  my ;  oh,  my. 

Dey  ain'  no  use  denying  dat  her  love  is 
mine; 

Oh,  my;  oh,  my. 

But  hyeah's  de  t'ing  dat's   puttin'  me  in 

such  a  awful  plight, 
I  t'ink  of  huh  at  mornin'  an'  I  dream  of 

huh  at  night ; 
But  how's  I  gwine  to  cou't  huh  w'en  I  do' 

know  how  to  write  ? 
Oh,  my  ;  oh,  my. 

My  heaht  is  bubblin'  ovah  wid  de  t'ings  I 
want  to  say ; 

Oh,  my  ;  oh,  my. 


A  Letter  f'om  de  Sweetes'  Little  Gal 


I          .  GIT  TO  T'INKIN'  OF  DE  PAS' 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


333 


An'  dey's  lots  of  folks  to  copy  what  I  .tell 
'em  fu'  de  pay  ; 

Oh,  my ;  oh,  my. 

But  dey's  t'ings  dat  I's  a-t'inkin*  dat  is 

only  fu'  huh  ears, 
An'  I  couldn't  lu'n  to  write  'em  ef  I  took 

a  dozen  years ; 

So  to  go  down  daih  an'  tell  huh  is  de  only 
way,  it  'pears; 

Oh,  my ;  oh,  my. 

THE  OLD  CABIN 

In  de  dead  of  night  I  sometimes, 

Git  to  t'inkin'  of  de  pas' 
An'  de  days  w'en  slavery  helt  me 

In  my  mis'ry — ha'd  an'  fas'. 
Dough  de  time  was  mighty  tryin', 

In  dese  houahs  somehow  hit  seem 
Dat  a  brightah  light  come  slippin' 

Thoo  de  kivahs  of  my  dream. 

An'  my  min'  fu'gits  de  whuppins 

Draps  de  feah  o'  block  an'  lash 
An'  flies  straight  to  somep'n'  joyful 

In  a  secon's  lightnin'  flash. 
Den  hit  seems  I  see  a  vision 

Of  a  dearah  long  ago 
Of  de  childern  tumblin'  roun*  me 

By  my  rough  ol'  cabin  do*. 

Talk  about  yo'  go'geous  mansions 

An'  yo'  big  house  great  an'  gran', 
Des  bring  up  de  fines'  palace 

Dat  you  know  in  all  de  Ian'. 
But  dey's  somep'n'  dearah  to  me, 

Somep'n'  faihah  to  my  eyes 
In  dat  cabin,  less  you  bring  me 

To  yo'  mansion  in  de  skies. 

I  kin  see  de  light  a-shinin' 

Thoo  de  chinks  atween  de  logs, 
I  kin  hyeah  de  way-off  bayin' 

Of  my  mastah's  huntin'  dogs, 
An'  de  neighin'  of  de  hosses 

Stampin*  on  de  ol'  bahn  flo', 
But  above  dese  soun's  de  laughin* 

At  my  deah  ol'  cabin  do'. 

We  would  gethah  daih  at  evenin', 
All  my  frien's  'ud  come  erroun* 


An'  hit  wan't  no  time,  twell,  bless  you, 
You  could  hyeah  de  banjo's  soun'. 

You  could  see  de  dahkies  dancin' 
Pigeon  wing  an'  heel  an'  toe, — 

Joyous  times  I  tell  you  people 
Roun*  dat  same  ol'  cabin  do*. 

But  at  times  my  t'oughts  gits  saddah, 

Ez  I  riccolec'  de  folks, 
An'  dey  frolickin'  an'  talkin* 

Wid  dey  laughin'  an'  dey  jokes. 
An'  hit  hu'ts  me  w'en  I  membahs 

Dat  I'll  nevah  see  no  mo' 
Dem  ah  faces  gethered  smilin' 

Roun'  dat  po'  ol'  cabin  do'. 


AFTER  MANY  DAYS 

I've  always  been  a  faithful  man 
An'  tried  to  live  for  duty, 

But  the  stringent  mode  of  life 
Has  somewhat  lost  its  beauty. 

The  story  of  the  generous  bread 
He  sent  upon  the  waters, 

Which  after  many  days  returns 
To  trusting  sons  and  daughters, 


To  trusting  sons 

Had  oft  impressed  me,  so  I  want 

My  soul  influenced  by  it, 
And  bought  a  loaf  of  bread  and  sought 

A  stream  where  I  could  try  it. 

I  cast  my  bread  upon  the  waves 
And  fancied  then  to  await  it; 

It  had  not  floated  far  away 

When  a  fish  came  up  and  ate  it. 

And  if  I  want  both  fish  and  bread, 
And  surely  both  I'm  wanting, 

About  the  only  way  I  see 
Is  for  me  to  go  fishing. 


LIZA  MAY 

Little  brown  face  full  of  smiles, 
And  a  baby's  guileless  wiles, 
Liza  May,  Liza  May. 


334 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


Eyes  a-peeping  thro'  the  fence 
With  an  interest  intense, 
Liza  May. 

Ah,  the  gate  is  just  ajar, 
And  the  meadow  is  not  far, 

Liza  May,  Liza  May. 

And  the  road  feels  very  sweet, 
To  your  little  toddling  feet, 
Liza  May. 

Ah,  you  roguish  runaway, 
What  will  toiling  mother  say, 
Liza  May,  Liza  May  ? 

What  care  you  who  smile  to  greet 
Every  one  you  chance  to  meet, 
Liza  May  ? 

Soft  the  mill-race  sings  its  song, 
Just  a  little  way  along, 

Liza  May,  Liza  May. 

But  the  song  is  full  of  guile, 
Turn,  ah  turn,  your  steps  the  while, 
Liza  May. 

You  have  caught  the  gleam  and  glow 
Where  the  darkling  waters  flow, 
Liza  May,  Liza  May. 

Flash  of  ripple,  bend  of  bough, 
Where  are  all  the  angels  now  ? 
Liza  May. 

Now  a  mother's  eyes  intense 
Gazing  o'er  a  shabby  fence, 

Liza  May,  Liza  May. 

Then  a  mother's  anguished  face 
Peering  all  around  the  place, 
Liza  May. 

Hear  the  agonizing  call 
For  a  mother's  all  in  all, 

Liza  May,  L  za  May. 

Hear  a  mother's  maddened  prayer 
To  the  calm  unanswering  air, 
Liza  May. 


What's  become  of — Liza  May  ? 
What  has  darkened  all  the  day  ? 
Liza  May,  Liza  May. 

Ask  the  waters  dark  and  fleet, 
If  they  know  the  smiling,  sweet 
Liza  May. 

Call  her,  call  her  as  you  will, 
On  the  meadow,  on  the  hill, 
Liza  May,  Liza  May. 

Through  the  brush  or  beaten  track 
Echo  only  gives  you  back, 
Liza  May. 

Ah,  but  you  were  loving — sweet, 
On  your  little  toddling  feet, 

Liza  May,  Liza  May. 

But  through  all  the  coming  years, 
Must  a  mother  breathe  with  tears, 
Liza  May. 


THE  MASTERS 

Oh,  who  is  the  Lord  of  the  land  of  life, 

When  hotly  goes  the  fray  ? 
When,   fierce  we   smile   in  the  midst  of 
strife 

Then  whom  shall  we  obey  ? 

Oh,  Love  is  the  Lord  of  the  land  of  life 
Who  holds  a  monarch's  sway ; 

He  wends  with  wish  of  maid  and  wife, 
And  him  you  must  obey. 

Then  who  is  the  Lord  of  the  land  of  life, 

At  setting  of  the  sun  ? 
Whose  word  shall  sway  when  Peace  is 
rife 

And  all  the  fray  is  done  ?  ** 

Then  Death  is  the  Lord  of  the  land  of 
life, 

When  your  hot  race  is  run. 
Meet  then  his  scythe  and  pruning-knife 

When  the  fray  is  lost  or  won. 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


335 


TROUBLE  IN  DE  KITCHEN 

Dey  was  oncet   a  awful  quoil  'twixt  de 

skillet  an*  de  pot ; 
De  pot  was  des  a-bilin'  an*  de  skillet  sho* 

was  hot. 
Dey  slurred  each  othah's  colah  an'  dey 

called  each  othah  names, 
Wile  de  coal-oil  can  des  gu'gled,  po'in'  oil 

erpon  de  flames. 

De  pot,  hit  called  de  skillet  des  a  flat,  dis- 

figgered  t'ing, 
An'  de  skillet  'plied  dat  all  de  pot  could 

do  was  set  an'  sing, 
An'  he  'lowed  dat  dey  was  'lusions  dat  he 

wouldn't  stoop  to  mek 
'Case  he  reckernize  his  juty,  an'  he  had 

too  much  at  steak. 

Well,  at  dis  de  pot  biled  ovah,  case  his 

tempah  gittin'  highah, 
An'  de  skillet  got  to  sputterin',  den  de  fat 

was  in  de  fiah. 
Mistah  fiah  lay  daih  smokin'  an'  a-t'inkin' 

to  hisse'f, 
Wile   de  peppah-box   us   nudgin*  of  de 

gingah  on  de  she'f. 

Den  dey  all  des  lef  hit  to  'im,  'bout  de 

trouble  an'  de  talk ; 
An'  howevah  he  decided,  w'y  dey  bofe  'u'd 

walk  de  chalk ; 
But  de  fiah  uz  so  'sgusted  how  dey  quoil 

an'  dey  shout 
Dat  he  cooled  'em  off,  I  reckon,  w'en  he 

puffed  an'  des  went  out. 


THE  QUILTING 

Dolly  sits  a-quilting  by  her  mother,  stitch 

by  stitch, 
Gracious,  how  my  pulses  throb,  how  my 

fingers  itch, 
While    I   note   her  dainty  waist  and  her 

slender  hand, 
As  she  matches  this  and  that,  she  stitches 

strand  by  strand. 
And  I  long  to  tell  her  Life's  a  quilt  and 

I'm  a  patch ; 
Love  will  do  the  stitching  if  she'll  only  be 

my  match. 


PARTED 

She  wrapped  her  soul  in  a  lace  of  lies> 
With  a  prime  deceit  to  pin  it ; 

And  I  thought  I  was  gaining  a  fearsome 

prize, 
So  I  staked  my  soul  to  win  it. 

We  wed  and  parted  on  her  complaint, 
And  both  were  a  bit  of  barter, 

Tho'  I'll  confess  that  I'm  no  saint, 
I'll  swear  that  she's  no  martyr. 


FOREVER 

I  had  not  known  before 

Forever  was  so  long  a  word. 
The  slow  stroke  of  the  clock  of  time 

I  had  not  heard. 

'Tis  hard  to  learn  so  late ; 

It  seems  no  sad  heart  really  learns, 
But  hopes  and  trusts  and  doubts  and  fears, 

And  bleeds  and  burns. 

The  night  is  not  all  dark, 

Nor  is  the  day  all  it  seems, 
But  each  may  bring  me  this  relief — 

My  dreams  and  dreams. 

I  had  not  known  before 
That  Never  was  so  sad  a  word, 

So  wrap  me  in  forgetfulness  — 
I  have  not  heard. 


CHRISTMAS 

Step  wid  de  banjo  an'  glide  wid  de  fiddle, 
Dis  ain'  no  time  fu'  to  pottah  an'  pid- 
dle; 
Fu'  Christmas  is  comin',  it's  right  on  de 

way, 
An'  dey's  houahs  to  dance  'fo'  de  break 

o'  de  day. 

What  if  de  win'  is  taihin*  an'  whistlin'  ? 
Look  at  dat  fiah  how  hit's  spittin'  an' 

bristlin' ! 

Heat  in  de  ashes  an*  heat  in  de  cindahs, 
OP  mistah  Fros'  kin  des  look  thoo  de 
windahs. 


336 


THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 


Heat  up  de  toddy  an'  pas'  de  wa'm  glasses, 
Don'    stop    to    shivah   at   blowin's   an' 

blas'es, 

Keep  on  de  kittle  an'  keep  it  a-hummin', 
Eat  all  an'  drink   all,   dey's   lots   mo' 

a-comin'. 

Look  hyeah,  Maria,  don't  open  dat  oven, 
Want    all    dese    people   a-pushin'  an' 
shovin'? 

Res'   f'om   de   dance?      Yes,   you   done 

cotch  dat  odah, 
Mammy  done  cotch  it,  an'  law  !  hit  nigh 

flo'h  huh ; 
'Possum  is  monst'ous  fu'  mekin'  folks  fin' 

it! 
Come,  draw  yo'  cheers  up,  I's  sho'  I  do' 

min'  it. 
Eat   up   dem   critters,  you  men  folks  an' 

wimmens, 

'Possums  ain'  skace  w'en  dey's  lots  o' 
pu'simmons. 


ROSES  AND  PEARLS 

Your  spoken   words   are   roses   fine   and 

sweet, 
The  songs  you  sing  are  perfect  pearls  of 

sound. 

How  lavish  nature  is  about  your  feet, 
To    scatter    flowers    and    jewels    both 
around. 


Blushing -the  stream  of  petal  beauty  flows, 
Softly  the  white    strings    trickle  down 

and  shine. 

Oh !  speak  to  me,  my  love,  I  crave  a  rose. 
Sing  me  a  song,  for  I  would  pearls  were 
mine. 


RAIN-SONGS 

The  rain  streams  down  like  harp-strings 

from  the  sky ; 
The  wind,  that  world-old  harpist,  sitteth 

by; 

And  ever  as  he  sings  his  low  refrain, 
He  plays  upon  the  harp-strings  of  the 


A  LOST  DREAM 

Ah,  I  have  changed,  I  do  not  know 
Why  lonely  hours  affect  me  so. 
In  days  of  yore,  this  were  not  wont, 
No  loneliness  my  soul  could  daunt. 

For  me  too  serious  for  my  age, 

The  weighty  tome  of  hoary  sage, 

Until  with  puzzled  heart  astir, 

One  God-giv'n  night,  I  dreamed  of  her. 

I  loved  no  woman,  hardly  knew 
More  of  the  sex  that  strong  men  woo 
Than  cloistered  monk  within  his  cell ; 
But  now  the  dream  is  lost,  and  hell 

Holds  me  her  captive  tight  and  fast 
Who  prays  and  struggles  for  the  past. 
No  living  maid  has  charmed  my  eyes, 
But  now,  my  soul  is  wonder-wise. 

For  I  have  dreamed  of  her  and  seen 
Her  red-brown  tresses,  ruddy  sheen, 
Have  known  her  sweetness,  lip  to  lip, 
The  joy  of  her  companionship. 

When  days  were  bleak  and  winds  were 

rude, 

She  shared  my  smiling  solitude, 
And  all  the  bare  hills  walked  with  me 
To  hearken  winter's  melody. 

And  when  the  spring  came  o'er  the  land 
We  fared  together  hand  in  hand 
Beneath  the  linden's  leafy  screen 
That  waved  above  us  faintly  green. 

In  summer,  by  the  riverside, 
Our  souls  were  kindred  with  the  tide 
That  floated  onward  to  the  sea 
As  we  swept  towards  Eternity. 

ThTbird's  call  and  the  water's  drone 
Were  all  for  us  and  us  alone. 
The  water  fall  that  sang  all  night 
Was  her  companion,  my  delight, 

And  e'en  the  squirrel,  as  he  sped 
Along  the  branches  overhead, 
Half  kindly  and  half  envious, 
Would  chatter  at  the  joy  of  us. 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 


337 


'Twas  but  a  dream,  her  face,  her  hair, 
The  spring-time  sweet,  the  winter  bare, 
The  summer  when  the  woods  we  ranged,- 
'Twas  but  a  dream,  but  all  is  changed. 

Yes,  all  is  changed  and  all  has  fled, 
The  dream  is  broken,  shattered,  dead. 
And  yet,  sometimes,  I  pray  to  know 
How  just  a  dream  could  hold  me  so. 


A  SONG 

On  a  summer's  day  as  I  sat  by  a  stream, 
A  dainty  maid  came  by, 

And  she   blessed   my   sight   like  a   rosy 

dream, 

And  left  me  there  to  sigh,  to  sigh, 
And  left  me  there  to  sigh,  to  sigh. 

On  another  day  as  I  sat  by  the  stream, 
This  maiden  paused  a  while, 

Then  I  made  me  bold  as  I  told  my  dream, 
She  heard  it  with  a  smile,  a  smile, 
She  heard  it  with  a  smile,  a  smile. 

Oh,  the  months  have  fled  and  the  autumn's 

red, 
The  maid  no  more  goes  by ; 


For  my  dream  came  true  and  the  maid  I 

wed, 

And  now  no  more  I  sigh,  I  sigh, 
And  now  no  more  I  sigh. 


A  SONG 

Thou  art  the  soul  of  a  summer's  day, 
Thou  art  the  breath  of  the  rose. 

But  the  summer  is  fled 

And  the  rose  is  dead 

Where   are  they  gone,  who  knows,  who 
knows  ? 


Thou  art  the  blood  of  my  heart  o'  hearts, 
Thou  art  my  soul's  repose, 

But  my  heart  grows  numb 

And  my  soul  is  dumb 
Where  art  thou,  love,  who  knows,  who 
knows  ? 

Thou  art  the  hope  of  my  after  years  — 
Sun  for  my  winter  snows 

But  the  years  go  by 

'Neath  a  clouded  sky. 
Where  shall  we  meet,  who  knows,  who 
knows  ? 


PART  m 

The  Best  Stories  of  Paul  Laurence 

Dunbar 

A  FAMILY  FEUD 

I  WISH  I  could  tell  you  the  story  as  I  heard  it  from  the 
lips  of  the  old  black  woman  as  she  sat  bobbing  her  tur- 
baned  head  to  and  fro  with  the  motion  of  her  creaky  little 
rocking-chair,  and  droning  the  tale  forth  in  the  mellow 
voice  of  her  race.  So  much  of  the  charm  of  the  story 
was  in  that  voice,  which  even  the  cares  of  age  had  not 
hardened. 

It  was  a  sunny  afternoon  in  late  November,  one  of  those 
days  that  come  like  a  backward  glance  from  a  reluctantly 
departing  summer.  I  had  taken  advantage  of  the  warmth 
and  brightness  to  go  up  and  sit  with  old  Aunt  Doshy  on 
the  little  porch  that  fronted  her  cottage.  The  old  woman 
nad  been  a  trusted  house-servant  in  one  of  the  wealthiest 
of  the  old  Kentucky  families,  and  a  visit  to  her  never 
failed  to  elicit  some  reminiscence  of  the  interesting  past. 
Aunt  Doshy  was  inordinately  proud  of  her  family,  as  she 
designated  the  Venables,  and  was  never  weary  of  detail- 
ing accounts  of  their  grandeur  and  generosity.  What  if 
some  of  the  harshness  of  reality  was  softened  by  the  dis- 
tance through  which  she  looked  back  upon  them  ;  what 

339 


340  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

if  the  glamour  of  memory  did  put  a  halo  round  the  heads 
of  some  people  who  were  never  meant  to  be  canonized  ? 
It  was  all  plain  fact  to  Aunt  Doshy,  and  it  was  good  to 
hear  her  talk.  That  day  she  began  :  — 

"  I  reckon  I  hain't  never  tol'  you  'bout  ole  Mas'  an* 
young  Mas'  fallin'  out,  has  I  ?  Hit's  all  over  now,  an' 
things  is  done  change  so  dat  I  reckon  eben  ef  ole  Mas' 
was  libin',  he  wouldn't  keer  ef  I  tol',  an'  I  knows  young 
Mas'  Tho'nton  wouldn't  Dey  ain't  nuffin'  to  hide  'bout 
it  nohow,  'ca'se  all  quality  families  has  de  same  kin'  o' 
'spectable  fusses. 

"  Hit  all  happened  'long  o'  dem  Jamiesons  whut  libed 
jinin'  places  to  our  people,  an'  whut  ole  Mas'  ain't  spoke 
to  fu'  nigh  onto  thutty  years.  Long  while  ago,  when 
Mas'  Tom  Jamieson  an'  Mas'  Jack  Venable  was  bofe 
young  mans,  dey  had  a  qua'l  'bout  de  young  lady  dey 
bofe  was  a-cou'tin',  an'  by  an'  by  dey  had  a  du'l  an'  Mas' 
Jamieson  shot  Mas'  Jack  in  de  shouldah,  but  Mas'  Jack 
ma'ied  de  lady,  so  dey  was  eben.  Mas'  Jamieson  ma'ied 
too,  an'  after  so  many  years  dey  was  bofe  wid'ers,  but 
dey  ain't  fu' give  one  another  yit.  When  Mas'  Tho'nton 
was  big  enough  to  run  erroun',  ole  Mas'  used  to  try  to 
press  on  him  dat  a  Venable  mus'n'  never  put  his  foot  on 
de  Jamieson  Ian' ;  an'  many  a  tongue-lashin'  an'  some- 
times wuss  de  han's  on  our  place  got  fu'  mixin'  wif  de 
Jamieson  servants.  But,  la !  young  Mas'  Tho'nton  was 
wuss'n  de  niggers.  Evah  time  he  got  a  chance  he  was 
out  an'  gone,  over  lots  an'  fiel's  an'  into  de  Jamieson  ya'd 
a-playin'  wif  little  Miss  Nellie,  whut  was  Mas'  Tom's  little 
gal.  I  never  did  see  two  chillun  so  'tached  to  one  an- 
other. Dey  used  to  wander  erroun',  han'  in  han',  lak 
brother  an'  sister,  an'  dey'd  cry  lak  dey  little  hea'ts 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  341 

'u'd  brek  ef  either  one  of  dey  pappy s  seed  'em  an* 
pa'ted  'em. 

"  I  'member  once  when  de  young  Mastah  was  erbout 
eight  year  ole,  he  was  a-settin'  at  de  table  one  mo'nin' 
eatin'  wif  his  pappy,  when  all  of  er  sudden  he  pause  an' 
say,  jes'  ez  solerm-lak,  '  When  I  gits  big,  I  gwine  to  ma'y 
Nellie.'  His  pappy  jump  lak  he  was  shot,  an'  tu'n  right 
pale,  den  he  say  kin'  o'  slow  an'  gaspy-lak,  *  Don't  evah 
let  me  hyeah  you  say  sich  a  thing  ergin,  Tho'nton 
Venable.  Why,  boy,  I'd  raver  let  evah  drap  o'  blood 
outen  you,  dan  to  see  a  Venable  cross  his  blood  wif  a 
Jamieson.' 

"  I  was  jes'  a-bringin'  in  de  cakes  whut  Mastah  was 
pow'ful  fon'  of,  an'  I  could  see  bofe  dey  faces.  But,  la ! 
honey,  dat  chile  didn't  look  a  bit  skeered.  He  jes'  sot 
dah  lookin'  in  his  pappy 's  face, — he  was  de  spittin'  image 
of  him,  all  'cept  his  eyes,  dey  was  his  mother's, — den  he 
say,  *  Why,  Nellie's  nice,'  an'  went  on  eatin'  a  aig.  His 
pappy  laid  his  napkin  down  an'  got  up  an'  went  erway 
'om  de  table.  Mas'  Tho'nton  say,  *  Why,  father  didn't, 
eat  his  cakes.'  *  I  reckon  yo'  pa  ain't  well,'  says  I,  fu'  I 
knowed  de  chile  was  innercent. 

"  Well,  after  dat  day,  ole  Mas'  tuk  extry  pains  to  keep 
de  chillun  apa't — but  'twa'n't  no  use.  'Tain't  never  no 
use  in  a  case  lak  dat.  Dey  jes'  would  be  together,  an'  ez 
de  boy  got  older,  it  seemed  to  grieve  his  pappy  mighty. 
I  reckon  he  didn't  lak  to  jes'  fu'bid  him  seein'  Miss  Nellie 
fu'  he  know  how  haidstrong  Mas'  Tho'nton  was,  anyhow. 
So  things  kep'  on  dis  way,  an'  de  boy  got  handsomer 
evah  day.  My,  but  his  pappy  did  set  a  lot  o'  sto'  by  him. 
Dey  wasn't  nuffin'  dat  boy  eben  wished  fu'  dat  his  pappy 

didn't   gin   him.     Seemed  lak  he  fa'ly  wusshiped   him. 
le 


342  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

He'd  jes'  watch  him  ez  he  went  erroun'  de  house  lak  he 
was  a  baby  yit.  So  hit  mus'  V  been  putty  ha'd  wif  Mas' 
Jack  when  hit  come  time  to  sen'  Mas'  Tho'nton  off  to 
college.  But  he  never  showed  it.  He  seed  him  off  wif 
a  cheerful  face,  an'  nobidy  would  'a'  ever  guessed  dat  it 
hu't  him  ;  but  dat  afternoon  he  shet  hisse'f  up  an'  hit  was 
th'ee  days  befo'  anybody  'cept  me  seed  him,  an'  nobidy 
'cept  me  knowed  how  his  vittels  come  back  not  teched. 
But  after  de  fus'  letter  come,  he  got  better.  I  hyeahd  him 
a-lamn'  to  hisse'f  ez  he  read  it,  an'  dat  day  he  et  his 
dinner. 

"Well,  honey,  dey  ain't  no  tellin'  whut  Mas'  Jack's 
plans  was,  an'  hit  ain't  fu'  me  to  try  an'  guess  'em ;  but  ef 
he  had  sont  Mas'  Tho'nton  erway  to  brek  him  off  f'om 
Miss  Nellie,  he  mout  ez  well  'a'  let  him  stayed  at  home ; 
fu'  Jamieson's  Sal  whut  nussed  Miss  Nellie  tol'  me  dat 
huh  mistis  got  a  letter  f'om  Mas'  Tho'nton  evah  day  er 
so.  An'  when  he  was  home  fu'  holidays,  you  never  seed 
nufnn'  lak  it.  Hit  was  jes'  walkin'  er  ridin'  er  dribin'  wif 
dat  young  lady  evah  day  of  his  life.  An'  dey  did  look  so 
sweet  together  dat  it  seemed  a  shame  to  pa't  'em — him  wif 
his  big  brown  eyes  an'  sof  curly  hair  an'  huh  all  white 
an'  gentle  lak  a  little  dove.  But  de  ole  Mas'  couldn't  see 
hit  dat  erway,  an'  I  knowed  dat  hit  was  a-troublin'  him 
mighty  bad.  Ez  well  ez  he  loved  his  son,  hit  allus 
seemed  lak  he  was  glad  when  de  holidays  was  over  an' 
de  boy  was  back  at  college. 

"  Endurin'  de  las'  year  dat  de  young  Mastah  was  to  be 
erway,  his  pappy  seemed  lak  he  was  jes'  too  happy  an1 
res' less  fu'  anything.  He  was  dat  proud  of  his  son,  he 
didn't  know  whut  to  do.  He  was  allus  tellin'  visitors  dat 
come  to  de  house  erbout  him,  how  he  was  a  'markable 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  343 

boy  an'  was  a-gwine  to  be  a  honor  to  his  name.  An1 
when  'long  to'ds  de  ve'y  end  of  de  term,  a  letter  come 
say  in'  dat  Mas'  Tho'nton  had  done  tuk  some  big  honor 
at  de  college,  I  jes'  thought  sho  Mas'  Jack  'u'd  plum  bus* 
hisse'f,  he  was  so  proud  an'  tickled.  I  hyeahd  him  talkin' 
to  his  ole  frien'  Gunnel  Mandrey  an'  mekin'  great  plans 
'bout  whut  he  gwine  to  do  when  his  son  come  home.  He 
gwine  tek  him  trav'lin'  fus'  in  Eur'p,  so's  to  '  finish  him 
lak  a  Venable  ought  to  be  finished  by  seein'  somep'n'  of 
de  worF — '  dem's  his  ve'y  words.  Den  he  was  a-gwine 
to  come  home  an'  'model  de  house  an*  fit  it  up,  *  fu' ' — I 
never  shell  fu'git  how  he  said  it, — '  fu'  I  'spec'  my  son  to 
tek  a  high  place  in  de  society  of  ole  Kintucky  an'  to  mo' 
dan  surstain  de  reputation  of  de  Venables.'  Den  when 
de  las'  day  come  an'  young  Mastah  was  home  fu'  sho,  so 
fine  an*  clever  lookin'  wif  his  new  mustache — sich  times 
ez  dey  was  erbout  dat  house  nobidy  never  seed  befo'. 
All  de  frien's  an'  neighbors,  'scusin',  o'  co'se,  de  Jamie- 
sons,  was  invited  to  a  big  dinner  dat  lasted  fu'  hours. 
Dey  was  speeches  by  de  gent'men,  an'  evahbidy  drinked 
de  graderate's  health  an'  wished  him  good  luck.  But  all 
de  time  I  could  see  dat  Mas'  Tho'nton  wasn't  happy, 
dough  he  was  smilin'  an'  mekin'  merry  wif  evahbidy.  It 
'pressed  me  so  dat  I  spoke  erbout  hit  to  Aunt  Emmerline. 
Aunt  Emmerline  was  Mas'  Tho'nton's  mammy,  an'  sence 
he'd  growed  up,  she  didn't  do  much  but  he'p  erroun'  de 
house  a  little. 

"  *  You  don'  mean  to  tell  me  dat  you  noticed  dat  too  ?' 
says  she  when  I  toP  huh  erbout  it. 

"  «  Yes,  I  did/  says  I,  '  an'  I  noticed  hit  strong.' 
"  '  Dey's  somep'n'  ain't  gwine  right  wif  my  po'  chile,' 
she  say,  *  an'  dey  ain't  no  tellin'  whut  it  is.' 


344  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

"  *  Hain't  you  got  no  idee,  Aunt  Emmerline  ? '  I  say. 

"  '  La  !  chile/  she  say  in  a  way  dat  mek  me  think  she 
keepin'  somep'n'  back,  *  la  !  chile,  don'  you  know  young 
mans  don'  come  to  dey  mammys  wif  dey  secuts  lak  dey 
do  when  dey's  babies  ?  How  I  gwine  to  know  whut's 
pesterin'  Mas'  Tho'nton?' 

"  Den  I  knowed  she  was  hidin'  somep'n',  an'  jes'  to  let 
huh  know  dat  I'd  been  had  my  eyes  open  too,  I  say  slow 
an'  'pressive  lak,  *  Aunt  Emmerline,  don'  you  reckon  hit 
Miss  Nellie  Jamieson  ? '  She  jumped  lak  she  was  skeered, 
an'  looked  at  me  right  ha'd  ;  den  she  say,  '  I  ain'  reck'nin' 
nuffin'  'bout  de  white  folks'  bus' ness.'  An'  she  pinched 
huh  mouf  up  right  tight,  an'  I  couldn't  git  another  word 
outen  huh ;  but  I  knowed  dat  I'd  hit  huh  jes'  erbout  right. 

"  One  mo'nin'  erbout  a  week  after  de  big  dinner,  jes' 
ez  dey  was  eatin',  Mas'  Tho'nton  say,  *  Father,  I'd  lak  to 
see  you  in  de  liberry  ez  soon  ez  you  has  de  time.  I  want 
to  speak  to  you  'bout  somep'n'  ve'y  impo'tant.'  De  ole 
man  look  up  right  quick  an'  sha'p,  but  he  say  ve'y  quiet 
lak,  '  Ve'y  well,  my  son,  ve'y  well ;  I's'  at  yo'  service  at 
once.' 

"  Dey  went  into  de  liberry,  an'  Mas'  Tho'nton  shet  de 
do'  behin'  him.  I  could  hyeah  dem  talkin'  kin'  o'  low 
while  I  was  cl'arin'  erway  de  dishes.  After  while  dey 
'menced  to  talk  louder.  I  had  to  go  out  an'  dus'  de  hall 
den  near  de  liberry  do',  an'  once  I  hyeahd  ole  Mas'  say 
right  sho't  an'  sha'p,  '  Never  ! '  Den  young  Mas'  he  say, 
'  But  evah  man  has  de  right  to  choose  fu'  his  own  se'f.' 

"  '  Man,  man  ! '  I  hyeahd  his  pappy  say  in  a  way  I  had 
never  hyeahd  him  use  to  his  son  befo',  '  evah  male  bein' 
dat  wahs  men's  clothes  an'  has  a  mustache  ain't  a  man.' 

" '  Man  er  whut  not,'  po'  young  Mastah's  voice  was  a 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  345 

tremblin',  '  I  am  at  leas'  my  father's  son  an'  I  deserve  bet- 
ter dan  dis  at  his  han's.'  I  hyeahd  somebody  a-walkin' 
de  flo',  an'  I  was  feared  dey'd  come  out  an'  think  dat  I 
was  a-listenin',  so  I  dus'es  on  furder  down  de  hall,  an' 
didn't  hyeah  no  mo'  ontwell  Mas'  Tho'nton  come  hurry  in' 
out  an'  say,  '  Ike,  saddle  my  hoss.'  He  was  ez  pale  ez  he 
could  be,  an'  when  he  spoke  sho't  an'  rough  lak  dat,  he 
was  so  much  lak  his  father  dat  hit  skeered  me.  Ez  soon 
ez  his  hoss  was  ready,  he  jumped  into  de  saddle  an'  went 
fly  in'  outen  de  ya'd  lak  mad,  never  eben  lookin'  back  at 
de  house.  I  didn't  see  Mas'  Jack  fu'  de  res'  of  de  day, 
an'  he  didn't  come  in  to  suppah.  But  I  seed  Aunt  Em- 
merline  an'  I  knowed  dat  she  had  been  somewhah  an* 
knowed  ez  much  ez  I  did  erbout  whut  was  gwine  on,  but 
I  never  broached  a  word  erbout  hit  to  huh.  I  seed  she 
was  oneasy,  but  I  kep'  still  'twell  she  say,  '  Whut  you 
reckon  keepin'  Mas'  Tho'nton  out  so  late  ? '  Den  I  jes 
say,  *  I  ain't  reck'nin'  'bout  de  white  folks'  bus'ness.'  She 
looked  a  little  bit  cut  at  fus',  den  she  jes'  go  on  laknufnn* 
hadn't  happened :  '  I's  mighty  'sturbed  'bout  young 
Mas'  ;  he  never  stays  erway  f'om  suppah  'dout  say  in' 
somep'n'.' 

" '  Oh,  I  reckon  he  kin  fin'  suppah  somewhah  else.1  I 
says  dis  don't  keer  lak  jes'  fu'  to  lead  huh  on. 

"  *  I  ain't  so  much  pestered  'bout  his  suppah,'  she  say  ; 
'  I's  feared  he  gwine  do  somep'n'  he  hadn't  ought  to  do 
after  dat  qua'l  'twixt  him  an'  his  pappy.' 

"  '  Did  dey  have  a  qua'l  ? '  says  I. 

"  '  G'long  ! '  Aunt  Emmerline  say,  '  you  wasn't  dus'hV 
one  place  in  de  hall  so  long  fu'  nuffin'.  You  knows  an'  I 
knows  eben  ef  we  don't  talk  a  heap.  I's  troubled  myse'f. 
Hit  jes'  in  dat  Venable  blood  to  go  right  straight  an'  git 


346  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

Miss  Nellie  an'  ma'y  huh  right  erway,  an'  ef  he  do  it,  I 
p'intly  know  his  pa  '11  never  fu'give  him.'  Den  Aunt 
Emmerline  'mence  to  cry,  an'  I  feel  right  sorry  fu'  huh, 
'ca'se  Mas'  Tho'nton  huh  boy,  an'  she  think  a  mighty 
heap  o'  him. 

"  Well,  we  hadn't  had  time  to  say  much  mo'  when  we 
hyeahd  a  hoss  gallopin'  into  de  ya'd.  Aunt  Emmerline 
jes'  say,  '  Dat's  Gineral's  lope  ! '  an'  she  bus'  outen  de  do.1 
I  waits,  'spectin'  huh  to  come  back  an'  say  dat  Mas' 
Tho'nton  done  come  at  las'.  But  after  while  she  come  in 
wif  a  mighty  long  face  an'  say,  '  Hit's  one  o'  Jamieson's 
darkies  ;  he  brung  de  hoss  back  an'  a  note  Mas'  gin  him 
fu'  his  pappy.  Mas'  Tho'nton  done  gone  to  Lexin'ton 
wif  Miss  Nellie  an'  got  ma'ied.'  Den  she  jes'  brek  down 
an'  'mence  a-cryin'  ergin  an'  a-rockin'  huhse'f  back  an' 
fofe  an'  saying  '  Oh,  my  po'  chile,  my  po'  boy,  whut's  to 
'come  o'  you  ! ' 

"  I  went  up-stairs  an'  lef  huh — we  bofe  stayed  at  de  big 
house — but  I  didn't  sleep  much,  'ca'se  all  thoo  de  night  I 
could  hyeah  ole  Mas'  a-walkin'  back  an'  fofe  ercross  his 
flo',  an'  when  Aunt  Emmerline  come  up  to  baid,  she 
mou'ned  all  night,  eben  in  huh  sleep.  I  tell  you,  honey, 
dem  was  mou'nin'  times. 

"  Nex'  mo'nin'  when  ole  Mas'  come  down  to  brekfus', 
he  looked  lak  he  done  had  a  long  spell  o'  sickness.  But 
he  wasn't  no  man  to  'spose  his  feelin's.  He  never  let  on, 
never  eben  spoke  erbout  Mas'  Tho'nton  bein'  erway  f'om 
de  table.  He  didn't  eat  much,  an'  fin'ly  I  see  him  look 
right  long  an'  stiddy  at  de  place  whah  Mas'  Tho'nton 
used  to  set  an'  den  git  up  an'  go  'way  f'om  de  table.  I 
knowed  dat  he  was  done  filled  up.  I  went  to  de  liberry 
do'  an'  I  could  hyeah  him  sobbin'  lak  a  chile.  I  tol' 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  347 

Aunt  Emmerline  'bout  it,  but  she  jes'  shuck  huh  haid  an1 
didn't  say  nuffin'  a' -tall. 

"  Well,  hit  went  dis  erway  fu'  'bout  a  week.  Mas' 
Jack  was  gittin'  paler  an'  paler  evah  day,  an'  hit  jes' 
'menced  to  come  to  my  min'  how  ole  he  was.  One  day 
Aunt  Emmerline  say  she  gwine  erway,  an'  she  mek  Jim 
hitch  up  de  spring  wagon  an'  she  dribe  on  erway  by 
huhse'f.  Co'se,  now,  Aunt  Emmerline  she  do  putty  much 
ez  she  please,  so  I  don't  think  nuffin'  'bout  hit.  When 
she  come  back,  'long  to'ds  ebenin',  I  say,  '  Aunt  Emmer- 
line, whah  you  been  all  day  ?  ' 

""'  Nemmine,  honey,  you  see,'  she  say,  an'  laff.  Well, 
I  ain't  seed  nobidy  laff  fu'  so  long  dat  hit  jes'  mek  me  feel 
right  wa'm  erroun'  my  hea't,  an'  I  laff  an'  keep  on  lamn* 
jes'  at  nuffin'. 

"Nex'  mo'nin'  Aunt  Emmerline  mighty  oneasy,  an' I 
don'*  know  whut  de  matter  ontwell  I  hyeah  some  un  say, 
'  Tek  dat  hoss,  Ike,  an'  feed  him,  but  keep  de  saddle  on.1 
Aunt  Emmerline  jes'  fa'ly  fall  out  de  do'  an'  I  lak  to 
drap,  'ca'se  hit's  Mas'  Tho'nton's  voice.  In  a  minute  he 
come  to  me  an'  say,  '  Doshy,  go  tell  my  father  I'd  lak  to 
speak  to  him.1 

"I  don'  skeercely  know  how  I  foun'  my  way  to  de 
liberry,  but  I  did.  Ole  Mas'  was  a-settin'  dah  wif  a  open 
book  in  his  han',  but  his  eyes  was  jes'  a-starin'  at  de  wall, 
an'  I  knowed  he  wasn't  a-readin'.  I  say,  'Mas'  Jack/  an' 
he  sta't  jes'  lak  he  rousin'  up,  '  Mas'  Jack,  Mas'  Tho'nton 
want  to  speak  to  you.'  He  jump  up  quick,  an'  de 
book  fall  on  de  flo',  but  he  grab  a  cheer  an'  stiddy  hisse'f. 
I  done  toP  you  Mas'  Jack  wasn't  no  man  to  'spose  his 
feelin's.  He  jes'  say,  slow  lak  he  hol'in'  hisse'f,  'Sen' 
him  in  hyeah.'  I  goes  back  an'  'livers  de  message,  den  I 


348  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

flies  roun'  to  de  po'ch  whah  de  liberry  winder  opens  out, 
'ca'se,  I  ain't  gwine  lie  erbout  it,  I  was  mighty  tuk  up  wif 
all  dis  gwine  on  an'  I  wanted  to  see  an'  hyeah, — an'  who 
you  reckon  'roun'  dah  but  Aunt  Emmerline !  She  jes' 
say,  '  S-sh  ! '  ez  I  come  'roun',  an'  clas'  huh  han's.  In  a 
minute  er  so,  de  liberry  do'  open  an'  Mas'  Tho'nton  come 
in.  He  shet  hit  behin'  him,  an'  den  stood  lookin'  at  his 
pa,  dat  ain't  never  tu'ned  erroun'  yit.  Den  he  say  sof, 
*  Father.'  Mas'  Jack  tu'ned  erroun'  raal  slow  an'  look  at 
his  son  fu'  a  while.  Den  he  say,  *  Do  you  still  honor  me 
wif  dat  name  ? '  Mas'  Tho'nton  got  red  in  de  face,  but 
he  answer,  '  I  don'  know  no  other  name  to  call  you.' 

"  '  Will  you  set  down  ? '  Mas'  speak  jes'  lak  he  was 
a-talkin'  to  a  stranger. 

"  *  Ef  you  desiah  me  to.'  I  see  Mas'  Tho'nton  was 
a-bridlin'  up  too.  Mas'  jes'  th'owed  back  his  haid  an* 
say,  '  Fa'  be  it  f  om  any  Venable  to  fu'git  cou'tesy  to  his 
guesY  Young  Mas'  moved  erway  f'om  de  cheer  whah 
he  was  a- gwine  to  set,  an'  his  haid  went  up.  He  spoke 
up  slow  an'  delibut,  jes'  lak  his  pa,  '  I  do  not  come,  suh, 
in  dat  cha'acter,  I  is  hyeah  ez  yo'  son.' 

"  Well,  ole  Mas'  eyes  fa'ly  snapped  fiah.  He  was 
white  ez  a  sheet,  but  he  still  spoke  slow  an'  quiet,  hit 
made  me  creep,  *  You  air  late  in  'memberin'  yo'  relation- 
ship, suh.' 

"  *  I  hab  never  fu'got  it.' 

" '  Den,  suh,  you  have  thought  mo'  of  yo'  rights  dan 
of  yo'  duties.'  Mas'  Jack  was  mad  an'  so  was  Mas' 
Tho'nton ;  he  say,  '  I  didn't  come  hyeah  to  'scuss  dat.' 
An'  he  tu'ned  to'ds  de  do'.  I  hyeah  Aunt  Emmerline 
groan  jes'  ez  Mas'  say,  'Well,  whut  did  you  come  fu'  ?' 

"  '  To  be  insulted  in  my  father's  house  by  my  father, 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  349 

an'  I's  got  all  dat  I  come  fu'  1 '  Mas'  Tho'nton  was  ez 
white  ez  his  pa  now,  an'  his  han'  was  on  de  do'-knob. 
Den  all  of  a  sudden  I  hyeah  de  winder  go  up,  an'  I  lak 
to  fall  over  gittin'  outen  de  way  to  keep  f'om  bein'  seed. 
Aunt  Emmerline  done  opened  de  winder  an'  gone  in. 
Dey  bofe  tu'ned  an'  looked  at  huh  s' prised  lak,  an'  Mas' 
Jack  sta'ted  to  say  somep'n',  but  she  th'owed  up  huh 
han'  an'  say,  '  Wait  1 '  lak  she  owned  de  house.  *  Mas1 
Jack,'  she  say,  *  you  an'  Mas'  Tho'nton  ain't  gwine  pa't 
dis  way.  You  mus'n't.  You's  father  an'  son.  You 
loves  one  another.  I  knows  I  ain't  got  no  bus'ness 
meddlin'  in  yo'  'fairs,  but  I  cain't  see  you  all  qua'l  dis 
way.  Mastah,  you's  bofe  stiffnecked.  You's  bofe  wrong. 
I  know  Mas'  Tho'nton  didn't  min'  you,  but  he  didn't 
mean  no  ha'm — he  couldn't  he'p  it — it  was  in  de  Venable 
blood,  an'  you  mus'n't  'spise  him  fu'  it' 

"  '  Emmerline  ' — ole  Mas'  tried  to  git  in  a  word,  but 
she  wouldn't  let  him. 

"  *  Yes,  Mastah,  yes,  but  I  nussed  dat  boy  an'  tuk  keer 
o'  him  when  he  was  a  little  bit  of  a  he'pless  thing;  an' 
when  his  po'  mammy  went  to  glory,  I  'member  how  she 
look  up  at  me  wif  dem  blessed  eyes  o'  hern  an'  lay  him 
in  my  arms  an'  say,  "Emmerline,  tek  keer  o'  my  baby." 
I's  done  it,  Mastah,  I's  done  it  de  bes'  I  could.  I's 
nussed  him  thoo  sickness  when  hit  seemed  lak  his  little 
soul  mus'  foller  his  mother  anyhow,  but  I's  seen  de  look 
in  yo'  eyes,  an'  prayed  to  God  to  gin  de  chile  back  to 
you.  He  done  it,  he  done  it,  an'  you  sha'n't  th'ow  erway 
de  gif  of  God  ! '  Aunt  Emmerline  was  a-cryin'  an'  so 
was  Mas'  Tho'nton.  Ole  Mas'  mighty  red,  but  he  clared 
his  th'oat  an'  said  wif  his  voice  tremblin',  *  Emmerline, 
leave  de  room.'  De  ole  ooman  come  out  a-cryin'  lak 


350  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

huh  hea't  'u'd  brek,  an'  jes'  ez  de  do'  shet  behin'  huh,  ole 
Mas'  brek  down  an'  hoF  out  his  arms,  cryin',  '  My  son, 
my  son.1  An'  in  a  minute  he  an'  Mas'  Tho'nton  was 
a-hoFin'  one  another  lak  dey'd  never  let  go,  an'  his  pa 
was  a-pattin'  de  boy's  haid  lak  he  was  a  baby.  All  of  a 
sudden  ole  Mas'  heF  him  off  an'  looked  at  him  an'  say, 
1  Dat  ole  fool  talkin'  to  me  erbout  yo1  mother's  eyes,  an' 
you  stannin'  hyeah  a-lookin'  at  me  wif  'em.'  An'  den  he 
was  a-cryin'  ergin,  an'  dey  was  bofe  huggin'. 

"  Well,  after  while  dey  got  all  settled  down,  an'  Mas' 
Tho'nton  tol'  his  pa  how  Aunt  Emmerline  drib  to  Lexin'- 
ton  an'  foun'  him  an'  made  him  come  home.  *  I  was 
wrong,  father,'  he  say,  *  but  I  reckon  ef  it  hadn't  'a'  been 
fu'  Aunt  Emmerline,  I  would  'a'  stuck  it  out.' 

" '  It  was  in  de  Venable  blood,'  his  pa  say,  an'  dey  bofe 
laff.  Den  ole  Mas'  say,  kin'  o'  lak  it  hu't  him,  'An' 
whah's  yo'  wife  ? '  Young  Mas'  got  mighty  red  ergin  ez 
he  answer,  *  She  ain't  fu'  erway.' 

"  '  Go  bring  huh,'  Mas'  Jack  say. 

"  Well,  I  reckon  Mas'  Tho'nton  lak  to  flew,  an'  he  had 
Miss  Nellie  dah  in  little  er  no  time.  When  dey  come, 
Mas'  he  say,  *  Come  hyeah,1  den  he  pause  awhile — '  my 
daughter/  Den  Miss  Nellie  run  to  him,  an'  dey  was  an- 
other cryin'  time,  an'  I  went  on  to  my  work  an'  lef  'em 
talkin'  an'  laffin'  an'  cryin'. 

"  Well,  Aunt  Emmerline  was  skeered  to  def.  She  jes' 
p'intly  knowed  dat  she  was  gwine  to  git  a  tongue-lashin'. 
I  don'  know  whether  she  was  mos'  skeered  er  mos'  happy. 
Mas'  sont  fu'  huh  after  while,  an'  I  listened  when  she 
went  in.  He  was  tryin'  to  talk  an'  look  pow'ful  stern, 
but  I  seed  a  twinkle  in  his  eye.  He  say,  1 1  want  you  to 
know,  Emmerline,  dat  hit  ain't  yo'  place  to  dictate  to  yo' 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  351 

mastah  whut  he  shell  do Shet  up,  shet  up  !  I  don' 

want  a  word  outen  you.  You  been  on  dis  place  so  long, 
an'  been  bossin'  de  other  darkies  an'  yo'  Mas'  Tho'nton 
erroun'  so  long,  dat  I  'low  you  think  you  own  de  place. 
Shet  up,  not  a  word  outen  you !  Ef  you  an'  yo'  young 
Mas' 's  a-gwine  to  run  dis  place,  I  reckon  I'd  better  step 
out.  Humph  1  You  was  so  sma't  to  go  to  Lexin'ton  de 
other  day,  you  kin  go  back  dah  ergin.  You  seem  to 
think  you's  white,  an'  hyeah's  de  money  to  buy  a  new 
dress  fu'  de  ole  fool  darky  dat  nussed  yo'  son  an'  made 
you  fu'give  his  foo'ishness  when  you  wanted  to  be  a  fool 
yo'se'f.'  His  voice  was  sof  ergin,  an'  he  put  de  money 
in  Aunt  Emmerline's  han'  an'  pushed  huh  out  de  do',  huh 
a-cryin'  an'  him  put'  nigh  it. 

"  After  dis,  Mas'  Jack  was  jes'  bent  an'  boun'  dat  de 
young  people  mus'  go  on  a  weddin'  trip.  So  dey  got 
ready,  an'  Miss  Nellie  went  an'  toF  huh  pa  goo' -bye. 
Min'  you,  dey  hadn't  been  nuffin'  said  'bout  him  an'  Mas' 
not  bein'  frien's.  He  done  fu'give  Miss  Nellie  right 
erway  fu'  runnin'  off.  But  de  mo'nin'  dey  went  erway, 
we  all  was  out  in  de  ya'd,  an'  Aunt  Emmerline  settin'  on 
de  seat  wif  Jim,  lookin'  ez  proud  ez  you  please.  Mastah 
was  ez  happy  ez  a  boy.  '  Emmerline,'  he  hollahs  ez  dey 
drib  off,  'tek  good  keer  o'  dat  Venable  blood.'  De 
ca'iage  stopped  ez  it  went  out  de  gate,  an'  Mas'  Tom 
Jamieson  kissed  his  daughter.  He  had  rid  up  de  road  to 
see  de  las'  of  huh.  Mastah  seed  him,  an'  all  of  a  sudden 
somep'n'  seemed  to  tek  holt  o'  him  an'  he  hollahed, 
4  Come  in,  Tom.' 

"  '  Don'  keer  ef  I  do,'  Mas'  Jamieson  say,  a-tu'nin'  his 
hoss  in  de  gate.  *  You  Venables  has  got  de  res'  o'  my 
fambly.'  We  all  was  mos'  s' prised  to  def. 


352  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

"  Mas*  Jamieson  jumped  off  en  his  hoss,  an'  Mas' 
Venable  come  down  de  steps  to  meet  him.  Dey  shuk 
han's,  an'  Mas'  Jack  say,  '  Dey  ain't  no  fool  lak  a  ole 
fool.' 

"  '  An'  fu'  unekaled  foo'ishness,'  Mas'  Tom  say,  *  recker- 
men'  me  to  two  ole  fools.'  Dey  went  into  de  house 
a-laffin',  an*  I  knowed  hit  was  all  right  'twixt  'em,  fu' 
putty  soon  I  seed  Ike  out  in  de  ya'd  a-getherin'  mint" 


OLD  AUNT  DOSHY 


MANDY  MASON 


JIMSELLA 

No  one  could  ever  have  accused  Mandy  Mason  of  be- 
ing thrifty.  For  the  first  twenty  years  of  her  life  condi- 
tions had  not  taught  her  the  necessity  for  thrift.  But  that 
was  before  she  had  come  North  with  Jim.  Down  there 
at  home  one  either  rented  or  owned  a  plot  of  ground  with 
a  shanty  set  in  the  middle  of  it,  and  lived  off  the  products 
of  one's  own  garden  and  coop.  But  here  it  was  all  very 
different :  one  room  in  a  crowded  tenement  house,  and 
the  necessity  of  grinding  day  after  day  to  keep  the  wolf — 
a  very  terrible  and  ravenous  wolf — from  the  door.  No 
wonder  that  Mandy  was  discouraged  and  finally  gave  up 
to  more  than  her  old  shiftless  ways. 

Jim  was  no  less  disheartened.  He  had  been  so  hopeful 
when  he  first  came,  and  had  really  worked  hard.  But  he 
could  not  go  higher  than  his  one  stuffy  room,  and  the* 
food  was  not  so  good  as  it  had  been  at  home.  In  this 
state  of  mind,  Mandy's  shiftlessness  irritated  him.  He 
grew  to  look  on  her  as  the  source  of  all  his  disappoint- 
ments. Then,  as  he  walked  Sixth  or  Seventh  Avenue,  he 
saw  other  colored  women  who  dressed  gayer  than 
Mandy,  looked  smarter,  and  did  not  wear  such  great 
shoes.  These  he  contrasted  with  his  wife,  to  her  great 
disadvantage. 

"  Mandy,"  he  said  to  her  one  day,  "  why  don't  you  fix 
yo'se'f  up  an'  look  like  people?  You  go  'roun'  hyeah 
lookin'  like  I  dunno  what" 

355 


356  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

"  Whyn't  you  git  me  somep'n'  to  fix  myse'f  up  in  ? " 
came  back  the  disconcerting  answer. 

"  Ef  you  had  any  git  up  erbout  you,  you'd  git  somep'n' 
fu'  yo'se'f  an'  not  wait  on  me  to  do  evahthing." 

"  Well,  ef  I  waits  on  you,  you  keeps  me  waitin',  fu'  I 
ain'  had  nothin'  fit  to  eat  ner  waih  since  I  been  up 
hyeah." 

"  Nev'  min' !  You's  mighty  free  wid  yo'  talk  now,  but 
some  o'  dese  days  you  won't  be  so  free.  You's  gwine  to 
wake  up  some  mo'nin'  an'  fin'  dat  I's  lit  out ;  dat's  what 
you  will." 

"  Well,  I  'low  nobody  ain't  got  no  string  to  you." 

Mandy  took  Jim's  threat  as  an  idle  one,  so  she  could 
afford  to  be  independent.  But  the  next  day  had  found 
him  gone.  The  deserted  wife  wept  for  a  time,  for  she  had 
been  fond  of  Jim,  and  then  she  set  to  work  to  struggle  on 
by  herself.  It  was  a  dismal  effort,  and  the  people  about  her 
were  not  kind  to  her.  She  was  hardly  of  their  class.  She 
was  only  a  simple,  honest  countrywoman,  who  did  not  go 
out  with  them  to  walk  the  avenue. 

When  a  month  or  two  afterwards  the  sheepish  Jim 
returned,  ragged  and  dirty,  she  had  forgiven  him  and 
taken  him  back.  But  immunity  from  punishment  spoiled 
him,  and  hence  of  late  his  lapses  had  grown  more  frequent 
and  of  longer  duration. 

He  walked  in  one  morning,  after  one  of  his  absences, 
with  a  more  than  usually  forbidding  face,  for  he  had  heard 
the  news  in  the  neighborhood  before  he  got  in.  During 
his  absence  a  baby  had  come  to  share  the  poverty  of  his 
home.  He  thought  with  shame  at  himself,  which  turned 
into  anger,  that  the  child  must  be  three  months  old  and 
he  had  never  seen  it. 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  357 

"  Back  ag'in,  Jim?"  was  all  Mandy  said  as  he  entered 
and  seated  himself  sullenly. 

"  Yes,  Fs  back,  but  I  ain't  back  fu'  long.  I  jes'  come 
to  git  my  clothes.  Fs  a-gwine  away  fu'  good." 

"  Gwine  away  ag'in  1  Why,  you  been  gone  fu'  nigh  on 
to  fou'  months  a'ready.  Ain't  you  nevah  gwine  to  stay 
home  no  mo'  ?  " 

"  I  toF  you  I  was  gwine  away  fu'  good,  didn't  I  ?  Well, 
dat's  what  I  mean." 

"  Ef  you  didn't  want  me,  Jim,  I  wish  to  Gawd  dat  you'd 
'a'  lef  me  back  home  among  my  folks,  whaih  people 
knowed  me  an'  would  'a'  give  me  a  helphV  han'.  Dis 
hyeah  No'f  ain't  no  fittin'  place  fu'  a  lone  colo'ed  ooman 
less'n  she  got  money." 

"  It  ain'  t  no  place  fu'  nobody  dat's  jes'  lazy  an'  no 
'count." 

"  I  ain't  no  'count.  I  ain't  wuffless.  I  does  de  bes'  I 
kin.  I  been  wo' kin'  like  a  dog  to  try  an'  keep  up  while 
you  trapsein'  'roun',  de  Lawd  knows  whaih.  When  I  was 
single  I  could  git  out  an'  mek  my  own  livin'.  I  didn't  ax 
nobody  no  odds  ;  but  you  wa'n't  satisfied  ontwell  I  ma'ied 
you,  an'  now,  when  Fs  tied  down  wid  a  baby,  dat's  de 
way  you  treats  me." 

The  woman  sat  down  and  began  to  cry,  and  the  sight 
of  her  tears  angered  her  husband  the  more. 

"  Oh,  cry  ! "  he  exclaimed.  "  Cry  all  you  want  to.  I 
reckon  you'll  cry  yo'  fill  befo'  you  gits  me  back.  What 
do  I  keer  about  de  baby !  Dat's  jes1  de  trouble.  It 
wa'n't  enough  fu'  me  to  have  to  feed  an'  clothe  you 
a-layin'  'roun'  doin'  nothin',  a  baby  had  to  go  an'  come 
too." 

"  It's  yo'n,  an'  you  got  a  right  to  tek  keer  of  it,  dat's 


358  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

what  you  have.  I  ain't  a-gwine  to  waih  my  soul-case 
out  a-tryin'  to  pinch  along  an'  sta've  to  def  at  las'.  I'll 
kill  myse'f  an'  de  chile,  too,  fus'." 

The  man  looked  up  quickly.  "  Kill  yo'se'f,"  he  said. 
Then  he  laughed.  "  Who  evah  hyeahed  tell  of  a  niggah 
killin'  hisse'f  ?" 

"  Nev'  min',  nev'  min',  you  jes'  go  on  yo'  way  rejoicin'. 
I  'spect  you  runnin'  roun'  aftah  somebody  else — dat's  de 
reason  you  cain't  nevah  stay  at  home  no  mo'." 

"Who  toP  you  dat?"  exclaimed  the  man,  fiercely.  "  I 
ain't  runnin'  aftah  nobody  else — 'tain't  none  o'  yo'  busi- 
ness ef  I  is." 

The  denial  and  implied  confession  all  came  out  in  one 
breath. 

"  Ef  hit  ain't  my  bus'ness,  I'd  like  to  know  whose  it 
gwine  to  be.  I's  yo'  lawful  wife  an'  hit's  me  dat's  a-sta'vin' 
to  tek  keer  of  yo'  chile." 

"  Doggone  de  chile  ;   I's  tiahed  o'  hyeahin'  'bout  huh." 

"  You  done  got  tiahed  mighty  quick  when  you  ain't 
nevah  even  seed  huh  yit.  You  done  got  tiahed  quick, 
sho." 

"  No,  an'  I  do1  want  to  see  huh,  neithah." 

"You  do'  know  nothin*  'bout  de  chile,  you  do'  know 
whethah  you  wants  to  see  huh  er  not." 

"  Look  hyeah,  ooman,  don't  you  fool  wid  me.  I  ain't 
right,  nohow  ! " 

Just  then,  as  if  conscious  of  the  hubbub  she  had  raised, 
and  anxious  to  add  to  it,  the  baby  awoke  and  began  to 
wail.  With  quick  mother  instinct,  the  black  woman  went 
to  the  shabby  bed,  and,  taking  the  child  in  her  arms,  be- 
gan to  croon  softly  to  it :  "Go  s'eepy,  baby  ;  don'  you 
be  'f'aid  ;  mammy  ain'  gwine  let  nurfin'  hu't  you,  even  ef 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  359 

pappy  don'  wan'  look  at  huh  li'l  face.  Bye,  bye,  go 
s'eepy,  mammy's  li'l  gal."  Unconsciously  she  talked  to 
the  baby  in  a  dialect  that  was  even  softer  than  usual. 
For  a  moment  the  child  subsided,  and  the  woman  turned 
angrily  on  her  husband  :  "  I  don'  keer  whethah  you 
evah  sees  dis  chile  er  not.  She's  a  blessed  li'l  angel,  dat's 
what  she  is,  an'  I'll  wo'k  my  fingahs  off  to  raise  huh,  an' 
when  she  grows  up,  ef  any  nasty  niggah  comes  erroun' 
mekin'  eyes  at  huh,  I'll  tell  huh  'bout  huh  pappy  an'  she'll 
stay  wid  me  an'  be  my  comfo't." 

11  Keep  yo'  comfo't.     Gawd  knows  I  do'  want  huh." 

"  De  time  '11  come,  though,  an'  I  kin  wait  fu'  it.  Hush- 
a-bye,  Jimsella." 

The  man  turned  his  head  slightly. 

"  What  you  call  huh  ?  " 

"  I  calls  huh  Jimsella,  dat's  what  I  calls  huh,  'ca'se  she 
de  ve'y  spittin'  image  of  you.  I  gwirie  to  jes'  lun  to  huh 
dat  she  had  a  pappy,  so  she  know  she's  a  hones'  chile  an* 
kin'  hoi'  up  huh  haid." 

"Oomph!" 

They  were  both  silent  for  a  while,  and  then  Jim  said, 
"  Huh  name  ought  to  be  Jamsella — don't  you  know  Jim's 
sho't  fu'  James?" 

"  I  don't  keer  what  it's  sho't  fu'."  The  woman  was 
holding  the  baby  close  to  her  breast  and  sobbing  now. 
"  It  wasn't  no  James  dat  come  a-cou'tin'  me  down  home. 
It  was  jes'  plain  Jim.  Dat's  what  de  mattah,  I  reckon 
you  done  got  to  be  James."  Jim  didn't  answer,  and  there 
was  another  space  of  silence,  only  interrupted  by  two  or 
three  contented  gurgles  from  the  baby. 

"  I  bet  two  bits  she  don't  look  like  me,"  he  said  finally, 
in  a  dogged  tone  that  was  a  little  tinged  with  curiosity. 

20 


360  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

"  I  know  she  do.     Look  at  huh  yo'se'f." 

"  I  ain'  gwine  look  at  huh." 

"  Yes,  you's  'fraid — dat's  de  reason." 

"  I  ain'  'fraid  nuttin'  de  kin'.  What  I  got  to  be  'fraia 
fu'  ?  I  reckon  a  man  kin  look  at  his  own  darter.  I  will 
look  jes'.to  spite  you." 

He  couldn't  see  much  but  a  bundle  of  rags,  from  which 
sparkled  a  pair  of  beady  black  eyes.  But  he  put  his 
finger  down  among  the  rags.  The  baby  seized  it  and 
gurgled.  The  sweat  broke  out  on  Jim's  brow. 

"  Cain't  you  let  me  hold  de  baby  a  minute?"  he  said 
angrily*  "  You  must  be  'fraid  I'll  run  off  wid  huh."  He 
took  the  child  awkwardly  in  his  arms. 

The  boiling  over  of  Mandy's  clothes  took  her  to  the 
other  part  of  the  room,  where  she  was  busy  for  a  few 
minutes.  When  she  turned  to  look  for  Jim,  he  had 
slipped  out,  and  Jimsella  was  lying  on  the  bed  trying  to 
kick  free  of  the  coils  which  swaddled  her. 

At  supper-time  that  evening  Jim  came  in  with  a  piece 
of  "  shoulder-meat "  and  a  head  of  cabbage. 

"  You'll  have  to  git  my  dinnah  ready  fu'  me  to  ca'y  to- 
morrer.  I's  wo'khV  on  de  street,  an'  I  cain't  come  home 
twell  night." 

"  Wha',  what ! "  exclaimed  Mandy,  "  den  you  ain' 
gwine  leave,  aftah  all." 

"  Don't  bothah  me,  ooman,"  said  Jim.  "  Is  Jimsella 
'sleep  ?" 


THE  WALLS  OF  JERICHO 

PARKER  was  sitting  alone  under  the  shade  of  a  locust 
tree  at  the  edge  of  a  field  His  head  was  bent  and  he 
was  deep  in  thought.  Every  now  and  then  there  floated 
to  him  the  sound  of  vociferous  singing,  and  occasionally 
above  the  music  rose  the  cry  of  some  shouting  brother  or 
sister.  But  he  remained  in  his  attitude  of  meditation  as 
if  the  singing  and  the  cries  meant  nothing  to  him. 

They  did,  however,  mean  much,  and,  despite  his  out- 
ward impassiveness,  his  heart  was  in  a  tumult  of  wounded 
pride  and  resentment.  He  had  always  been  so  faithful  to 
his  flock,  constant  in  attendance  and  careful  of  their  wel- 
fare. Now  it  was  very  hard,  at  the  first  call  of  the  stranger 
to  have  them  leave  their  old  pastor  and  crowd  to  the  new 
exhorter. 

It  was  nearly  a  week  before  that  a  free  negro  had  got 
permission  to  hold  meetings  in  the  wood  adjoining  the 
Mordaunt  estate.  He  had  invited  the  negroes  of  the  sur- 
rounding plantations  to  come  and  bring  their  baskets 
with  them  that  they  might  serve  the  body  while  they 
saved  the  soul.  By  ones  and  twos  Parker  had  seen  his 
congregation  drop  away  from  him  until  now,  in  the  cabin 
meeting  house  where  he  held  forth,  only  a  few  retainers, 
such  as  Mandy  and  Dinah  and  some  of  the  older  ones  on 
the  plantation,  were  present  to  hear  him.  It  grieved  his 
heart,  for  he  had  been  with  his  flock  in  sickness  and  in 
distress,  in  sorrow  and  in  trouble,  but  now,  at  the  first  ap- 
proach of  the  rival  they  could  and  did  desert  him,  He 

361 


362  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

felt  it  the  more  keenly  because  he  knew  just  how  power- 
ful this  man  Johnson  was.  He  was  loud-voiced  and 
theatrical,  and  the  fact  that  he  invited  all  to  bring  their 
baskets  gave  his  scheme  added  influence ;  for  his  congre- 
gations flocked  to  the  meetings  as  to  a  holy  picnic.  It 
was  seldom  that  they  were  thus  able  to  satisfy  both  the 
spiritual  and  material  longings  at  the  same  time. 

Parker  had  gone  once  to  the  meeting  and  had  hung 
unobserved  -on  the  edge  of  the  crowd  ;  then  he  saw  by 
what  power  the  preacher  held  the  people.  Every  night, 
at  the  very  height  of  the  service,  he  would  command  the 
baskets  to  be  opened  and  the  people,  following  the  ex- 
ample of  the  children  of  Israel,  to  march,  munching  their 
food,  round  and  round  the  inclosure,  as  their  Biblical 
archetypes  had  marched  around  the  walls  of  Jericho. 
Parker  looked  on  and  smiled  grimly.  He  knew,  and  the 
sensational  revivalist  knew,  that  there  were  no  walls  there 
to  tumble  down,  and  that  the  spiritual  significance  of  the 
performance  was  entirely  lost  upon  the  people.  What- 
ever may  be  said  of  the  Mordaunt  plantation  exhorter,  he 
was  at  least  no  hypocrite,  and  he  saw  clearly  that  his  rival 
gave  to  the  emotional  negroes  a  breathing  chance  and 
opportunity  to  eat  and  a  way  to  indulge  their  dancing  pro- 
clivities by  marching  trippingly  to  a  spirited  tune. 

He  went  away  in  disgust  and  anger,  but  thoughts 
deeper  than  either  burned  within  him.  He  was  thinking 
some  such  thoughts  now  as  he  sat  there  on  the  edge  of 
the  field  listening  to  the  noise  of  the  basket  meeting.  It 
was  unfortunate  for  his  peace  of  mind  that  while  he  sat 
there  absorbed  in  resentful  musings  two  of  the  young  men 
of  his  master's  household  should  come  along.  They  did 
not  know  how  Parker  felt  about  the  matter,  or  they  never 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  363 

would  have  allowed  themselves  to  tease  him  on  the  score 
of  his  people's  defection. 

"  Well,  Parker,"  said  Ralph,  "  seems  mighty  strange  to 
me  that  you  are  not  down  there  in  the  woods  at  the  meet- 
ing." 

The  old  man  was  silent. 

"  I  am  rather  surprised  at  Parker  myself,"  said  Tom 
Mordaunt;  "knowing  how  he  enjoys  a  good  sermon  I 
expected  him  to  be  over  there.  They  do  say  that  man 
Johnson  is  a  mighty  preacher." 

Still  Parker  was  silent. 

"  Most  of  your  congregation  are  over  there,"  Ralph  re- 
sumed. Then  the  old  exhorter,  stung  into  reply,  raised 
his  head  and  said  quietly : 

"  Dat  ain't  nuffin'  strange,  Mas'  Ralph.  I  been  preachin' 
de  gospel  on  yo'  father's  plantation,  night  aftah  night, 
nigh  on  to  twenty-five  years,  an'  spite  o'  dat,  mos'  o'  my 
congregation  is  in  hell." 

"  That  doesn't  speak  very  well  for  your  preaching,"  said 
Ralph,  and  the  two  young  fellows  laughed  heartily. 

"  Come,  Parker,  come,  don't  be  jealous ;  come  on  over 
to  the  meeting  with  us,  and  let  us  see  what  it  is  that 
Johnson  has  that  you  haven't.  You  know  any  man  can 
get  a  congregation  about  him,  but  it  takes  some  particular 
power  to  hold  them  after  they  are  caught." 

Parker  rose  slowly  from  the  ground  and  reluctantly 
joined  his  two  young  masters  as  they  made  their  way 
towards  the  woods.  The  service  was  in  full  swing.  At  a 
long  black  log,  far  to  the  front,  there  knelt  a  line  of 
mourners  wailing  and  praying,  while  the  preacher  stood 
above  them  waving  his  hands  and  calling  on  them  to  be- 
lieve and  be  saved.  Everv  now  and  then  some  one  vol- 


364  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

untarily  broke  into  a  song,  either  a  stirring,  marching 
spiritual  or  some  soft  crooning  melody  that  took  strange 
hold  upon  the  hearts  of  even  the  most  skeptical  listeners. 
As  they  approached  and  joined  the  crowd  some  one  had 
just  swung  into  the  undulating  lilt  of 

1  'Some  one  buried  in  de  graveyard, 

Some  one  buried  in  de  sea, 
All  come  togethah  in  de  mo'nin', 
Go  soun'  de  Jubilee." 

Just  the  word  "  Jubilee  "  was  enough  to  start  the  whole 
throng  into  agitated  life,  and  they  moaned  and  shouted 
and  wailed  until  the  forest  became  a  pandemonium. 

Johnson,  the  preacher,  saw  Parker  approach  with  the 
two  young  men  and  a  sudden  spirit  of  conquest  took  pos- 
session of  him.  He  felt  that  he  owed  it  to  himself  to 
crystallize  his  triumph  over  the  elder  exhorter.  So,  with 
a  glance  that  begged  for  approbation,  he  called  aloud : 

"Open  de  baskets !  Rise  up,  fu'  de  Jericho  walls  o'  sin 
is  a-stan'in'.  You  'member  dey  ma'ched  roun'  seven 
times,  an'  at  de  sevent'  time  de  walls  a-begun  to  shake 
an'  shiver ;  de  foundations  a-begun  to  trimble ;  de  chillen 
a-hyeahed  de  rum'lin'  lak  a  thundah  F om  on  high,  an' 
putty  soon  down  come  de  walls  a-fallin'  an'  a-crum  lin' ! 
Oh,  brothahs  an'  sistahs,  let  us  a-ma'ch  erroun'  de  walls  o5 
Jericho  to-night  seven  times,  an'  a-eatin'  o'  de  food  dat 
de  Lawd  has  pervided  us  wid.  Dey  ain't  no  walls  o' 
brick  an'  stone  a-stan'in'  hyeah  to-night,  but  by  de  eye  o' 
Christian  faif  I  see  a  great  big  wall  o'  sin  a-stan'in'  strong 
an'  thick  hyeah  in  ouah  midst.  Is  we  gwine  to  let  it 
stan'?" 

"  Oh,  no,  no  1 "  moaned  the  people. 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  365 

"  Is  we  gwine  to  ma'ch  erroun'  dat  wall  de  same  ez 
Joshuay  an'  his  ban'  did  in  de  days  of  oF,  ontwell  we 
hyeah  de  cracklin'  an'  de  rum'lin',  de  breakin'  an'  de 
taihin',  de  onsettlin'  of  de  foundations  an'  de  fallin'  of  de 
stones  an'  mo'tah?"  Then  raising  his  voice  he  broke 
into  the  song : 

"  Den  we'll  ma'ch,  ma'ch  down,  ma'ch,  ma'ch  down, 
Oh,  chillen,  ma'ch  down, 
In  de  day  o'  Jubilee." 

The  congregation  joined  him  in  the  ringing  chorus,  and 
springing  to  their  feet  began  marching  around  and  around 
the  inclosure,  chewing  vigorously  in  the  breathing  spaces 
of  the  hymn. 

The  two  young  men,  who  were  too  used  to  such  sights 
to  be  provoked  to  laughter,  nudged  each  other  and  bent 
their  looks  upon  Parker,  who  stood  with  bowed  head,  re- 
fusing to  join  in  the  performance,  and  sighed  audibly. 

After  the  march  Tom  and  Ralph  started  for  home,  and 
Parker  went  with  them. 

"He's  very  effective,  don't  you  think  so,  Tom?"  said 
Ralph. 

"  Immensely  so,"  was  the  reply.  "  I  don't  know  that  I 
have  ever  seen  such  a  moving  spectacle." 

"  The  people  seem  greatly  taken  up  with  him." 

"Personal  magnetism,  that's  what  it  is.  Don't  you 
think  so,  Parker?" 

"  Hum,"  said  Parker. 

"  It's  a  wonderful  idea  of  his,  that  marching  around  the 
walls  of  sin." 

"  So  original,  too.  It's  a  wonder  you  never  thought  of 
a  thing  like  that,  Parker.  I  believe  it  would  have  held 


366  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

your  people  to  you  in  the  face  of  everything.  They  do 
love  to  eat  and  march." 

"Well,"  said  Parker,  "you  all  may  think  what  you 
please,  but  I  ain't  nevah  made  no  business  of  mekin'  a 
play  show  outen  de  Bible.  Dem  folks  don't  know  what 
dey're  doin'.  Why,  ef  dem  niggahs  hyeahed  anything 
commence  to  fall  they'd  taih  dat  place  up  gittinr  erway 
f'om  daih.  It's  a  wondah  de  Lawd  don'  sen'  a  jedgmen' 
on  'em  fu'  tu'nin'  his  wo'd  into  mockery." 

The  two  young  men  bit  their  lips  and  a  knowing  glance 
flashed  between  them.  The  same  idea  had  leaped  into 
both  of  their  minds  at  once.  They  said  no  word  to 
Parker,  however,  save  at  parting,  and  then  they  only 
begged  that  he  would  go  again  the  next  night  of  the 
meeting. 

"  YQU  must,  Parker,"  said  Ralph.  "  You  must  repre- 
sent the  spiritual  interest  of  the  plantation.  If  you  don't, 
that  man  Johnson  will  think  we  are  heathen  or  that  our 
exhorter  is  afraid  of  him." 

At  the  name  of  fear  the  old  preacher  bridled  and  said 
with  angry  dignity: 

"  Nemmine,  nemmine  ;  he  shan't  nevah  think  dat.  I'll 
be  daih." 

Parker  went  alone  to  his  cabin,  sore  at  heart ;  the  young 
men,  a  little  regretful  that  they  had  stung  him  a  bit  too 
far,  went  up  to  the  big  house,  their  heads  close  together, 
and  in  the  darkness  and  stillness  there  came  to  them  the 
hymns  of  the  people. 

On  the  next  night  Parker  went  early  to  the  meeting- 
place  and,  braced  by  the  spirit  of  his  defiance,  took  a 
conspicuous  front  seat.  His  face  gave  no  sign,  though 
his  heart  throbbed  angrily  as  he  saw  the  best  and  most 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  367 

trusted  of  his  flock  come  in  with  intent  faces  and  seat 
themselves  anxiously  to  await  the  advent  of  an  alien. 
Why  had  those  rascally  boys  compelled  him  for  his  own 
dignity's  sake  to  come  there  ?  Why  had  they  forced  him 
to  be  a  living  witness  of  his  own  degradation  and  of  his 
own  people's  ingratitude  ? 

But  Parker  was  a  diplomat,  and  when  the  hymns  began 
he  joined  his  voice  with  the  voices  of  the  rest. 

Something,  though,  tugged  at  Parker's  breast,  a  vague 
hoped-for  something ;  he  knew  not  what — the  promise  of 
relief  from  the  tension  of  his  jealousy,  the  harbinger  of 
revenge.  It  was  in  the  air.  Everything  was  tense  as  if 
awaiting  the  moment  of  catastrophe.  He  found  himself 
joyous,  and  when  Johnson  arose  on  the  wings  of  his  elo- 
quence it  was  Parker's  loud  "  Amen  "  which  set  fire  to  all 
the  throng.  Then,  when  the  meeting  was  going  well, 
when  the  spiritual  fire  had  been  thoroughly  kindled  and 
had  gone  from  crackling  to  roaring;  when  the  hymns 
were  loudest  and  the  hand-clapping  strongest,  the  reviv- 
alist called  upon  them  to  rise  and  march  around  the  walls 
of  Jericho.  Parker  rose  with  the  rest,  and,  though  he  had 
no  basket,  he  levied  on  the  store  of  a  solicitous  sister  and 
marched  with  them,  singing,  singing,  but  waiting,  wait- 
ing for  he  knew  not  what. 

It  was  the  fifth  time  around  and  yet  nothing  had  hap- 
pened. Then  the  sixth,  and  a  rumbling  sound  was  heard 
near  at  hand.  A  tree  crashed  down  on  one  side.  White 
eyes  were  rolled  in  the  direction  of  the  noise  and  the  bur- 
den of  the  hymn  was  left  to  the  few  faithful.  Half  way 
around  and  the  bellow  of  a  horn  broke  upon  the  startled 
people's  ears,  and  the  hymn  sank  lower  and  lower.  The 
preacher's  face  was  ashen,  but  he  attempted  to  inspire  the 


368  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

people,  until  on  the  seventh  turn  such  a  rumbling  and 
such  a  clattering,  such  a  tumbling  of  rocks,  such  a  falling 
of  trees  as  was  never  heard  before  gave  horror  to  the 
night.  The  people  paused  for  one  moment  and  then  the 
remains  of  the  bread  and  meat  were  cast  to  the  winds, 
baskets  were  thrown  away,  and  the  congregation,  thor- 
oughly maddened  with  fear,  made  one  rush  for  the  road 
and  the  quarters.  Ahead  of  them  all,  his  long  coat-tails 
flying  and  his  legs  making  not  steps  but  leaps,  was  the 
Rev.  Mr.  Johnson.  He  had  no  word  of  courage  or  hope 
to  offer  the  frightened  flock  behind  him.  Only  Parker, 
with  some  perception  of  the  situation,  stood  his  ground. 
He  had  leaped  upon  a  log  and  was  crying  aloud  : 

"  Stan'  still,  stan'  still,  I  say,  an'  see  de  salvation,"  but 
he  got  only  frightened,  backward  glances  as  the  place  was 
cleared. 

When  they  were  all  gone,  he  got  down  off  the  log  and 
went  to  where  several  of  the  trees  had  fallen.  He  saw 
that  they  had  been  cut  nearly  through  during  the  day  on 
the  side  away  from  the  clearing,  and  ropes  were  still  along 
the  upper  parts  of  their  trunks.  Then  he  chuckled  softly 
to  himself.  As  he  stood  there  in  the  dim  light  of  the  fat- 
pine  torches  that  were  burning  themselves  out,  two 
stealthy  figures  made  their  way  out  of  the  surrounding 
gloom  into  the  open  space.  Tom  and  Ralph  were  hold- 
ing their  sides,  and  Parker,  with  a  hand  on  the  shoulder 
of  each  of  the  boys,  laughed  unrighteously. 

"  Well,  he  hyeahed  de  rum'lin'  an1  crum'linY'  he  said, 
and  Ralph  gasped. 

"You're  the  only  one  who  stood  your  ground,  Parker," 
said  Tom. 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  369 

"  How  erbout  de  walls  o'  Jericho  now  ?"  was  all  Parker 
could  say  as  he  doubled  up. 

When  the  people  came  back  to  their  senses  they  began 
to  realize  that  the  Rev.  Mr.  Johnson  had  not  the  qualities 
of  a  leader.  Then  they  recalled  how  Parker  had  stood 
still  in  spite  of  the  noise  and  called  them  to  wait  and  see 
the  salvation,  and  so,  with  a  rush  of  emotional  feeling, 
they  went  back  to  their  old  allegiance.  Parker's  meeting- 
house again  was  filled,  and  for  lack  of  worshipers  Mr. 
Johnson  held  no  more  meetings  and  marched  no  more 
around  the  walls  of  Jericho. 


"STAN'  STILL,  STAN'  STILL,  AN'  SEE  DE  SALVATION" 


His  EYES  WERE  BRIGHT,  AND  HE  WAS  BREATHING 
QUICKLY 


HOW  BROTHER  PARKER  FELL 
FROM  GRACE 

IT  all  happened  so  long  ago  that  it  has  almost  been 
forgotten  upon  the  plantation,  and  few  save  the  older 
heads  know  anything  about  it  save  from  hearsay.  It  was 
in  Parker's  younger  days,  but  the  tale  was  told  on  him 
for  a  long  time,  until  he  was  so  old  that  every  little  dis- 
paragement cut  him  like  a  knife.  Then  the  young  scape- 
graces who  had  the  story  only  from  their  mothers'  lips 
spared  his  dotage.  Even  to  young  eyes,  the  respect 
which  hedges  about  the  form  of  eighty  obscures  many  of 
the  imperfections  that  are  apparent  at  twenty-eight,  and 
Parker  was  nearing  eighty. 

The  truth  of  it  is  that  Parker,  armed  with  the  authority 
which  his  master  thought  the  due  of  the  plantation  ex- 
horter,  was  wont  to  use  his  power  with  rather  too  free  a 
rein.  He  was  so  earnest  for  the  spiritual  welfare  of  his 
fellow  servants  that  his  watchful  ministrations  became  a 
nuisance  and  a  bore. 

Even  Aunt  Doshy,  who  was  famous  for  her  devotion  to 
all  that  pertained  to  the  church,  had  been  heard  to  state 
that  "  Brothah  Pahkah  was  a  moughty  powahful  'zortah, 
but  he  sholy  was  monst'ous  biggity."  This  from  a  mem- 
ber of  his  flock  old  enough  to  be  his  mother,  quite 
summed  up  the  plantation's  estimate  of  this  black  disciple. 

There  was  many  a  time  when  it  would  have  gone  hard 
with  Brother  Parker  among  the  young  bucks  on  the 
Mordaunt  plantation  but  that  there  was  scarcely  one  of 
them  but  could  remember  a  time  when  Parker  had  come 

373 


374  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

to  his  cabin  to  console  some  sick  one,  help  a  seeker,  comfort 
the  dying  or  close  the  eyes  of  one  already  dead,  and  it 
clothed  him  about  with  a  sacredness,  which,  however  much 
inclined,  they  dared  not  invade. 

"  Ain't  it  enough,"  Mandy's  Jim  used  to  say,  "  fu' 
Brothah  Pahkah  to  'tend  to  his  business  down  at  meetin' 
widout  spookin'  'roun'  all  de  cabins  an'  outhouses  ?  Seems 
to  me  dey's  enough  dev'ment  gwine  on  right  undah  his 
nose  widout  him  gwine  'roun'  tryin'  to  smell  out  what's  hid." 

Every  secret  sinner  on  the  place  agreed  with  this 
dictum,  and  it  came  to  the  preacher's  ears.  He  smiled 
broadly. 

"  Uh,  huh,"  he  remarked,  "  hit's  de  stuck  pig  dat 
squeals.  I  reckon  Jim's  up  to  somep'n'  right  now,  an'  I 
lay  I'll  fin'  out  what  dat  somep'n'  is,"  Parker  was  a 
subtle  philosopher  and  Jim  had  by  his  remark  unwittingly 
disclosed  his  interest  in  the  preacher's  doings.  It  then 
behooved  his  zealous  disciple  to  find  out  the  source  of  this 
unusual  interest  and  opposition. 

On  the  Sunday  following  his  sermon  was  strong,  fiery 
and  convincing.  His  congregation  gave  themselves  up 
to  the  joy  of  the  occasion  and  lost  all  consciousness  of 
time  or  place  in  their  emotional  ecstasy.  But,  although 
he  continued  to  move  them  with  his  eloquence,  not  for 
one  moment  did  Parker  lose  possession  of  himself.  His 
eyes  roamed  over  the  people  before  him  and  took  in  the 
absence  of  several  who  had  most  loudly  and  heartily 
agreed  with  Jim's  dictum.  Jim  himself  was  not  there. 

"  Uh,  huh,"  said  the  minister  to  himself  even  in  the 
midst  of  his  exhortations.  "Uh,  huh,  erway  on  some 
dev'ment,  I  be  bounV1  He  could  hardly  wait  to  hurry 
through  his  sermon.  Then  he  seized  his  hat  and  almost 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  375 

ran  away  from  the  little  table  that  did  duty  as  a  pulpit 
desk.  He  brushed  aside  with  scant  ceremony  those  who 
would  have  asked  him  to  their  cabins  to  share  some 
special  delicacy,  and  made  his  way  swiftly  to  the  door. 
There  he  paused  and  cast  a  wondering  glance  about  the 
plantation. 

"  I  des  wondah  whaih  dem  scoun'els  is  mos'  lakly  to 
be."  Then  his  eye  fell  upon  an  old  half-ruined  smoke- 
house that  stood  between  the  kitchen  and  the  negro 
quarters,  and  he  murmured  to  himself,  "  Lak  ez  not,  lak 
ez  not."  But  he  did  not  start  directly  for  the  object  of 
his  suspicions.  Oh,  no,  he  was  too  deep  a  diplomat  for 
that.  He  knew  that  if  there  were  wrong-doers  in  that 
innocent-looking  ruin  they  would  be  watching  in  his 
direction  about  the  time  when  they  expected  meeting  to 
be  out ;  so  he  walked  off  swiftly,  but  carelessly,  in  an  op- 
posite direction,  and,  instead  of  going  straight  past  the 
kitchen,  began  to  circle  around  from  the  direction  of  the 
quarters,  whence  no  danger  would  be  apprehended. 

As  he  drew  nearer  and  nearer  the  place,  he  thought  he 
heard  the  rise  and  fall  of  eager  voices.  He  approached 
more  cautiously.  Now  he  was  perfectly  sure  that  he 
could  hear  smothered  conversation,  and  he  smiled  grimly 
as  he  pictured  to  himself  the  surprise  of  his  quarry  when 
he  should  come  up  with  them.  He  was  almost  upon  the 
smoke-house  now.  Those  within  were  so  absorbed  that 
the  preacher  was  able  to  creep  up  and  peer  through  a 
crack  at  the  scene  within. 

There,  seated  upon  the  earthen  floor,  were  the  un- 
regenerate  of  the  plantation.  In  the  very  midst  of  them 
was  Mandy's  Jim,  and  he  was  dealing  from  a  pack  of 
greasy  cards. 


376  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

It  is  a  wonder  that  they  did  not  hear  the  preacher's 
gasp  of  horror  as  he  stood  there  gazing  upon  the 
iniquitous  performance.  But  they  did  not.  The  delight 
of  High-Low-Jack  was  too  absorbing  for  that,  and  they 
suspected  nothing  of  Parker's  presence  until  he  slipped 
around  to  the  door,  pushed  it  open  and  confronted  them 
like  an  accusing  angel. 

Jim  leaped  to  his  feet  with  a  strong  word  upon  his  lips. 

"  I  reckon  you  done  fu'got,  Brothah  Jim,  what  day  dis 
is,"  said  the  preacher. 

u  I  ain't  fu'got  nuffin',"  was  the  dogged  reply  ;  "  I  don't 
see  what  you  doin'  roun'  hyeah  nohow." 

"  I's  a  lookin'  aftah  some  strayin'  lambs,"  said  Parker, 
"an'  I  done  foun'  'em.  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  o' 
yo'se'ves,  evah  one  o'  you,  playin'  cyards  on  de  Lawd's 
day." 

There  was  the  light  of  reckless  deviltry  in  Jim's  eyes. 

"  Dey  ain't  no  ha'm  in  a  little  game  o'  cyards." 

"  Co'se  not,  co'se  not,"  replied  the  preacher  scornfully. 
"  Dem's  des  de  sins  that's  ca'ied  many  a  man  to  hell  wid 
his  eyes  wide  open,  de  little  no-ha'm  kin'." 

"I  don't  reckon  you  evah  played  cyards,"  said  Jim 
sneeringly. 

"Yes,  I  has  played,  an'  I  thought  I  was  enjoyin' 
myse'f  ontwell  I  foun'  out  dat  it  was  all  wickedness  an' 
idleness." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  reckon  you  was  evah  ve'y  much  of  a 
player.  I  know  lots  o'  men  who  has  got  uligion  des 
case  dey  couldn't  win  at  cyards." 

The  company  greeted  this  sally  with  a  laugh  and  then 
looked  aghast  at  Jim's  audacity. 

"  Uligion's  a  moughty  savin'  to  de  pocket,"  Jim  went 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  377 

on.  "  We  kin  believe  what  we  wants  to,  and  I  say  you 
nevah  was  no  playah,  an'  dat's  de  reason  you  tuk  up  de 
Gospel/1 

"  Hit  ain't  so.  I  'low  dey  was  a  time  when  I  could  'a' 
outplayed  any  one  o'  you  sinnahs  hyeah,  but " 

"  Prove  it !  "  The  challenge  shot  forth  like  a  pistol's 
report. 

Parker  hesitated.     "  What  you  mean  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Beat  me,  beat  all  of  us,  an'  we'll  believe  you  didn't 
quit  play  in'  case  you  allus  lost  You  a  preachah  now,  an* 
I  daih  you." 

Parker's  face  turned  ashen  and  his  hands  gripped  to- 
gether. He  was  young  then,  and  the  hot  .blood  sped 
tumultuously  through  his  veins. 

"  Prove  it,"  said  Jim ;  "  you  cain't.  We'd  play  you 
outen  yo'  coat  an'  back  into  de  pulpit  ag'in." 

"  You  would,  would  you  ?  "  The  light  of  battle  was  in 
Parker's  eyes,  the  desire  for  conquest  throbbing  in^  his 
heart.  "  Look  a'hyeah,  Jim,  Sunday  er  no  Sunday, 
preachah  er  no  preachah,  I  play  you  th'ee  games  fu'  de 
Gospel's  sake."  And  the  preacher  sat  down  in  the  circle, 
his  face  tense  with  anger  at  his  tormentor's  insinuations. 
He  did  not  see  the  others  around  him.  He  saw  only  Jim, 
the  man  who  had  spoken  against  his  cloth.  He  did  not 
see  the  look  of  awe  and  surprise  upon  the  faces  of  the 
others,  nor  did  he  note  that  one  of  the  assembly  slipped 
out  of  the  shed  just  as  the  game  began. 

Jim  found  the  preacher  no  mean  antagonist,  but  it  mat- 
tered little  to  him  whether  he  won  or  not.  His  triumph 
was  complete  when  he  succeeded  in  getting  this  man, 
who  kept  the  conscience  of  the  plantation,  to  sin  as  others 

sinned. 
21 


378  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

"  I  see  you  ain't  fu'got  yo'  cunnin',"  he  remarked  as  the 
preacher  dealt  in  turn. 

"  'Tain't  no  time  to  talk  now,"  said  Parker  fiercely. 

The  excitement  of  the  onlookers  grew  more  and  more 
intense.  They  were  six  and  six,  and  it  was  the  preacher's 
deal.  His  eyes  were  bright,  and  he  was  breathing  quickly. 
Parker  was  a  born  fighter  and  nothing  gave  him  more  joy 
than  the  heat  of  the  battle  itself.  He  riffled  the  cards. 
Jim  cut.  He  dealt  and  turned  Jack.  Jim  laughed. 

"  You  know  the  trick,"  he  said. 

"  Dat's  one  game,"  said  Parker,  and  bent  over  the  cards 
as  they  came  to  him.  He  did  not  hear  a  light  step  out- 
side nor  did  he  see  a  shadow  that  fell  across  the  open 
doorway.  He  was  just  about  to  lead  when  a  cold  voice, 
full  of  contempt,  broke  upon  his  ear  and  made  him  keep 
the  card  he  would  have  played  poised  in  his  hand. 

"  And  so  these  are  your  after-meeting  diversions,  are 
they,  Parker  ?  "  said  his  master's  voice. 

Stuart  Mordaunt  was  standing  in  the  door,  his  face 
cold  and  stern,  while  his  informant  grinned  maliciously. 

Parker  brushed  his  hand  across  his  brow  as  if 
dazed. 

"  Well,  Mas'  Stua't,  he  do  play  monst'ous  well  fu'  a 
preachah,"  said  his  tempter. 

The  preacher  at  these  words  looked  steadily  at  Jim,  and 
then  the  realization  of  his  position  burst  upon  him.  The 
tiger  in  him  came  uppermost  and,  with  flaming  eyes,  he 
took  a  quick  step  towards  Jim. 

"  Stop,"  said  Mordaunt,  coming  between  them  ;  "  don't 
add  anything  more  to  what  you  have^  already  done." 

"  Mas'  Stua't,  I— I "  Parker  broke  down,  and,  turn- 
ing away  from  the  exultant  faces,  rushed  headlong  out  of 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  379 

the  place.  His  master  followed  more  leisurely,  angry  and 
hurt  at  the  hypocrisy  of  a  trusted  servant. 

Of  course  the  game  was  over  for  that  day,  but  Jim  and 
his  companions  hung  around  the  smoke-house  for  some 
time,  rejoicing  in  the  downfall  of  their  enemy.  Afterwards, 
they  went  to  their  cabins  for  dinner.  Then  Jim  made  a 
mistake.  With  much  laughter  and  boasting  he  told 
Mandy  all  about  it,  and  then  suddenly  awakened  to  the 
fact  that  she  was  listening  to  him  with  a  face  on  which 
only  horror  was  written.  Jim  turned  to  his  meal  in  silence 
and  disgust.  A  woman  has  no  sense  of  humor. 

"  Whaih  you  gwine  ?  "  he  asked,  as  Mandy  began  put- 
ting on  her  bonnet  and  shawl  with  ominous  precision. 

11 1's  gwine  up  to  be  big  house,  dat's  whaih  Ps  gwine." 

"  What  you  gwine  daih  fu'  ?  " 

"  Ps  gwine  to  tell  Mas'  Stua't  all  erbout  hit." 

"  Don't  you  daih." 

"  Heish  yo'  mouf.  Don't  you  talk  to  me,  you  nasty, 
low-life  scamp.  Ps  gwine  tell  Mas'  Stua't,  an'  I  hope  an' 
pray  he'll  tek  all  de  hide  oflen  yo'  back." 

Jim  sat  in  bewildered  misery  as  Mandy  flirted  out  of  the 
cabin  ;  he  felt  vaguely  some  of  the  hopelessness  of  defeat 
which  comes  to  a  man  whenever  he  attempts  to  lay 
sacrilegious  hands  on  a  woman's  religion  or  what  stands 
to  her  for  religion. 

Parker  was  sitting  alone  in  his  cabin  with  bowed  head 
when  the  door  opened  and  his  master  came  across  the 
floor  and  laid  his  hand  gently  on  the  negro's  shoulder. 

"  I  didn't  know  how  it  was,  Parker,"  he  said  softly. 

"  Oh,  Ps  back-slid,  Ps  fell  from  grace,"  moaned  Parker. 

"Nonsense,"  said  his  master,  "you've  fallen  from 
nothing.  There  are  times  when  we've  got  to  meet  the 


380  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

devil  on  his  own  ground  and  fight  him  with  his  own 
weapons." 

Parker  raised  his  head  gladly.  "  Say  dem  wo'dsag'in, 
Mas'  Stua't,"  he  said. 

His  master  repeated  the  words,  but  added :  "  But  it 
isn't  safe  to  go  into  the  devil's  camp  too  often,  Parker." 

"  I  ain't  gwine  into  his  camp  no  mo.'  Aftah  dis  I's 
gwine  to  stan'  outside  an'  hollah  in."  His  face  was  beam- 
ing and  his  voice  trembled  with  joy. 

"  I  didn't  think  I'd  preach  to-night,"  he  said  timidly. 

"  Of  course  you  will,"  said  Mordaunt,  "  and  your  mis- 
tress and  I  are  coming  to  hear  you,  so  do  your  best." 

His  master  went  out  and  Parker  went  down  on  his 
knees. 

He  did  preach  that  night  and  the  plantation  remem- 
bered the  sermon. 


JIM'S  PROBATION 

FOR  so  long  a  time  had  Jim  been  known  as  the  hardest 
sinner  on  the  plantation  that  no  one  had  tried  to  reach  the 
heart  under  his  outward  shell  even  in  camp-meeting  and 
revival  times.  Even  good  old  Brother  Parker,  who  was 
ever  looking  after  the  lost  and  straying  sheep,  gave  him 
up  as  beyond  recall. 

"Dat  Jim,"  he  said,  "  Oomph,  de  debbil  done  got  his 
stamp  on  dat  boy,  an'  dey  ain'  no  use  in  tryin'  to  scratch 
hit  off." 

"  But  Parker,"  said  his  master,  "  that's  the  very  sort 
of  man  you  want  to  save.  Don't  you  know  it's  your 
business  as  a  man  of  the  gospel  to  call  sinners  to  re- 
pentance ?  " 

"  Lawd,  Mas'  Mordaunt,"  exclaimed  the  old  man,  "  my 
v'ice  done  got  hoa'se  callin'  Jim,  too  long  ergo  to  talk 
erbout.  You  jes'  got  to  let  him  go  'long,  maybe  some  o* 
dese  days  he  gwine  slip  up  on  de  gospel  an1  fall  plum' 
inter  salvation." 

Even  Mandy,  Jim's  wife,  had  attempted  to  urge  the  old 
man  to  some  more  active  efforts  in  her  husband's  behalf. 
She  was  a  pillar  of  the  church  herself,  and  was  woefully 
disturbed  about  the  condition  of  Jim's  soul.  Indeed,  it 
was  said  that  half  of  the  time  it  was  Mandy's  prayers  and 
exhortations  that  drove  Jim  into  the  woods  with  his  dog 
and  his  axe,  or  an  old  gun  that  he  had  come  into  posses- 
sion of  from  one  of  the  younger  Mordaunts. 

Jim  was  unregenerate.  He  was  a  fighter,  a  hard 

381 


382  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

drinker,  fiddled  on  Sunday,  and  had  been  known  to  go 
out  hunting  on  that  sacred  day.  So  it  startled  the  whole 
place  when  Mandy  announced  one  day  to  a  few  of  her 
intimate  friends  that  she  believed  "  Jim  was  under  con- 
viction." He  had  stolen  out  hunting  one  Sunday  night 
and  in  passing  through  the  swamp  had  gotten  himself 
thoroughly  wet  and  chilled,  and  this  had  brought  on  an 
attack  of  acute  rheumatism,  which  Mandy  had  pointed 
out  to  him  as  a  direct  judgment  of  heaven.  Jim  scoffed 
at  first,  but  Mandy  grew  more  and  more  earnest,  and 
finally,  with  the  racking  of  the  pain,  he  waxed  serious  and 
determined  to  look  to  the  state  of  his  soul  as  a  means  to 
the  good  of  his  body. 

"  Hit  do  seem,"  Mandy  said,  "  dat  Jim  feel  de  weight 
o'  his  sins  mos'  powahful." 

"  I  reckon  hit's  de  rheumatics,"  said  Dinah. 

"  Don'  mek  no  diffunce  what  de  inst'ument  is,"  Mandy 
replied,  "  hit's  de  'suit,  hit's  de  'suit." 

When  the  news  reached  Stuart  Mordaunt's  ears  he  be- 
came intensely  interested.  Anything  that  would  convert 
Jim,  and  make  a  model  Christian  of  him  would  be  provi- 
dential on  that  plantation.  It  would  save  the  overseers 
many  an  hour's  worry ;  his  horses,  many  a  secret  ride  ; 
and  the  other  servants,  many  a  broken  head.  So  he 
again  went  down  to  labor  with  Parker  in  the  interest  of 
the  sinner. 

"  Is  he  mou'nin'  yit  ?  "  said  Parker. 

"  No,  not  yet,  but  I  think  now  is  a  good  time  to  sow  the 
seeds  in  his  mind." 

"  Oomph,"  said  the  old  man,  "  reckon  you  bettah  let 
Jim  alone  twell  dem  sins  o'  his'n  git  him  to  tossin'  an' 
cryin'  an'  a  mou'nin'.  Den'll  be  time  enough  to  strive 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  383 

wid  him.  Fs  allus  willin'  to  do  my  pa't,  Mas*  Stuart,  but 
w'en  hit  comes  to  oP  time  sinnahs  lak  Jim,  I  believe  in 
lay  in'  off,  an'  lettin'  de  sperit  do  de  strivin'." 

"  But  Parker,"  said  his  master,  "  you  yourself  know  that 
the  Bible  says  that  the  spirit  will  not  always  strive.' ' 

"  Well,  la  den,  Mas',  you  don'  spec'  I  gwine  outdo  de 
sperit." 

But  Stuart  Mordaunt  was  particularly  anxious  that  Jim's 
steps  might  be  turned  in  the  right  direction.  He  knew 
just  what  a  strong  hold  over  their  minds  the  Negroes' 
own  emotional  religion  had,  and  he  felt  that  could  he  once 
get  Jim  inside  the  pale  of  the  church,  and  put  him  on 
guard  of  his  salvation,  it  would  mean  the  loss  of  fewer  of 
his  shoats  and  pullets.  So  he  approached  the  old  preacher, 
and  said  in  a  confidential  tone, 

"  Now  look  here,  Parker,  I've  got  a  fine  lot  of  that  good 
old  tobacco  you  like  so  up  to  the  big  house,  and  I'll  tell 
you  what  I'll  do.  If  you'll  just  try  to  work  on  Jim,  and 
get  his  feet  in  the  right  path,  you  can  come  up  and  take 
all  you  want." 

"  Oom-oomph,"  said  the  old  man,  "  dat  sho'  is  mon- 
st'ous  fine  terbaccer,  Mas'  Stua't." 

"  Yes,  it  is,  and  you  shall  have  all  you  want  of  it." 

"  Well,  I'll  have  a  little  wisit  wid  Jim,  an'  des'  see  how 
much  he  'fected,  an'  if  dey  any  stroke  to  be  put  in  fu'  de 
gospel  ahmy,  you  des1  count  on  me  ez  a  mighty  strong 
wa'ior.  Dat  boy  been  lay  in'  heavy  on  my  mind  fu'  lo, 
dese  many  days." 

As  a  result  of  this  agreement,  the  old  man  went  down 
to  Jim's  cabin  on  a  night  when  that  interesting  sinner  was 
suffering  particularly  from  his  rheumatic  pains. 

"  Well,  Jim,"  the  preacher  said,  "  how  you  come  on  ?  " 


384  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

"Po'ly,  po'ly,"  said  Jim,  "I  des'  plum'  racked  an1 
'stracted  f  om  haid  to  foot.1' 

"  Uh,  huh,  hit  do  seem  lak  to  me  de  Bible  don'  tell 
nuffin'  else  but  de  trufe." 

"  What  de  Bible  been  sayin'  now  ? "  asked  Jim  sus- 
piciously. 

"  Des'  what  it  been  say  in'  all  de  res'  o'  de  time.  'Yo1 
sins  will  fin'  you  out.'  " 

Jim  groaned  and  turned  uneasily  in  his  chair.  The  old 
man  saw  that  he  had  made  a  point  and  pursued  it. 

"  Don'  you  reckon  now,  Jim,  ef  you  was  a  bettah  man 
dat  you  wouldn'  suffah  so  ?  " 

"  I  do'  know,  I  do'  know  nuffin'  'bout  hit." 

"  Now  des'  look  at  me.  I  ben  a-trompin'  erlong  in  dis 
low  groun'  o'  sorrer  fu'  mo'  den  seventy  yeahs,  an'  I  hain't 
got  a  ache  ner  a  pain.  Nevah  had  no  rheumatics  in  my 
life,  an'  yere  you  is,  a  young  man,  in  a  mannah  o'  speakin', 
all  twinged  up  wid  rheumatics.  Now  what  dat  p'nt  to  ? 
Hit  mean  de  Lawd  tek  keer  o'  dem  dat's  his'n.  Now 
Jim,  you  bettah  come  ovah  on  de  Lawd's  side,  an'  git 
erway  f'om  yo'  ebil  doin's." 

Jim  groaned  again,  and  lifted  his  swollen  leg  with  an 
effort  just  as  Brother  Parker  said,  "  Let  us  pray." 

The  prayer  itself  was  less  effective  than  the  request  was 
just  at  that  time,  for  Jim  was  so  stiff  that  it  made  him 
fairly  howl  with  pain  to  get  down  on  his  knees.  The  old 
man's  supplication  was  loud,  deep,  and  diplomatic,  and 
when  they  arose  from  their  knees  there  were  tears  in 
Jim's  eyes,  but  whether  from  cramp  or  contrition  it  is 
not  safe  to  say.  But  a  day  or  two  after,  the  visit  bore 
fruit  in  the  appearance  of  Jim  at  meeting  where  he  sat 
on  one  of  the  very  last  benches,  his  shoulders  hunched, 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  385 

and  his  head  bowed,  unmistakable  signs  of  the  convicted 
sinner. 

The  usual  term  of  mourning  passed,  and  Jim  was  con- 
verted, much  to  Mandy's  joy,  and  Brother  Parker's  delight. 
The  old  man  called  early  on  his  master  after  the  meeting, 
and  announced  the  success  of  his  labors.  Stuart  Mor- 
daunt  himself  was  no  less  pleased  than  the  preacher.  He 
shook  Parker  warmly  by  the  hand,  patted  him  on  the 
shoulder,  and  called  him  a  "sly  old  fox."  And  then  he 
took  him  to  the  cupboard,  and  gave  him  of  his  store  of 
good  tobacco,  enough  to  last  him  for  months.  Something 
else,  too,  he  must  have  given  him,  for  the  old  man  came 
away  from  the  cupboard  grinning  broadly,  and  ostenta- 
tiously wiping  his  mouth  with  the  back  of  his  hand. 

"  Great  work  you've  done,  Parker,  a  great  work." 

"Yes,  yes,  Mas',"  grinned  the  old  man,  "now  ef  Jim 
can  des'  stan'  out  his  p'obation,  hit' 11  be  monstrous 
fine." 

"  His  probation  1 "  exclaimed  the  master. 

"  Oh,  yes  suh,  yes  suh,  we  has  all  de  young  convu'ts 
stan'  a  p'obation  o'  six  months,  fo'  we  teks  'em  reg'lar 
inter  de  chu'ch.  Now  ef  Jim  will  des'  stan'  strong  in  de 
faif " 

"  Parker,"  said  Mordaunt,  "  you're  an  old  wretch,  and 
I've  got  a  mind  to  take  every  bit  of  that  tobacco  away 
from  you.  No.  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do." 

He  went  back  to  the  cupboard  and  got  as  much  again 
as  he  had  given  Parker,  and  handed  it  to  him,  saying : 

"  I  think  it  will  be  better  for  all  concerned  if  Jim's  pro- 
bation only  lasts  two  months.  Get  him  into  the  fold, 
Parker,  get  him  into  the  fold  1 "  And  he  shoved  the  an- 
cient exhorter  out  of  the  door. 


386  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

It  grieved  Jim  that  he  could  not  go  'possum  hunting 
on  Sundays  any  more,  but  shortly  after  he  got  religion, 
his  rheumatism  seemed  to  take  a  turn  for  the  better  and 
he  felt  that  the  result  was  worth  the  sacrifice.  But  as  the 
pain  decreased  in  his  legs  and  arms,  the  longing  for  his 
old  wicked  pleasures  became  stronger  and  stronger  upon 
him,  though  Mandy  thought  that  he  was  living  out  the 
period  of  his  probation  in  the  most  exemplary  manner, 
and  inwardly  rejoiced. 

It  was  two  weeks  before  he  was  to  be  regularly  ad- 
mitted to  church  fellowship.  His  industrious  spouse  had 
decked  him  out  in  a  bleached  cotton  shirt  in  which  to  at- 
tend divine  service.  In  the  morning  Jim  was  there.  The 
sermon  which  Brother  Parker  preached  was  powerful,  but 
somehow  it  failed  to  reach  this  new  convert.  His  gaze 
roved  out  of  the  window  towards  the  dark  line  of  the 
woods  beyond,  where  the  frost  still  glistened  on  the  trees 
and  where  he  knew  the  persimmons  were  hanging  ripe. 
Jim  was  present  at  the  afternoon  service  also,  for  it  was 
a  great  day  ;  and  again,  he  was  preoccupied.  He  started 
and  clasped  his  hands  together  until  the  bones  cracked, 
when  a  dog  barked  somewhere  out  on  the  hill.  The  sun 
was  going  down  over  the  tops  of  the  woodland  trees, 
throwing  the  forest  into  gloom,  as  they  came  out  of  the 
log  meeting-house.  Jim  paused  and  looked  lovingly  at 
the  scene,  and  sighed  as  he  turned  his  steps  back  towards 
the  cabin. 

That  night  Mandy  went  to  church  alone.  Jim  had  dis- 
appeared. Nowhere  around  was  his  axe,  and  Spot,  his 
dog,  was  gone.  Mandy  looked  over  towards  the  woods 
whose  tops  were  feathered  against  the  frosty  sky,  and 
away  off,  she  heard  a  dog  bark. 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  387 

Brother  Parker  was  feeling  his  way  home  from  meeting 
late  that  night,  when  all  of  a  sudden,  he  came  upon  a 
man  creeping  towards  the  quarters.  The  man  had  an  axe 
and  a  dog,  and  over  his  shoulders  hung  a  bag  in  which 
the  outlines  of  a  'possum  could  be  seen. 

"  Hi,  oh,  Brothah  Jim,  at  it  agin?" 

Jim  did  not  reply.  "  Well,  des'  heish  up  an'  go  'long. 
We  got  to  mek  some  'lowances  fu'  you  young  convu'ts. 
W'en  you  gwine  cook  dat  'possum,  Brothah  Jim?" 

"  I  do'  know,  Brothah  Pahkah.  He  so  po',  I  'low  I 
haveter  keep  him  and  fatten  him  fu'  awhile." 

"  Uh,  huh !  well,  so  long,  Jim." 

"So  long,  Brothah  Pahkah."  Jim  chuckled  as  he  went 
away.  "  I  'low  I  fool  dat  oP  fox.  Wanter  come  down 
an'  eat  up  my  one  little  'possum,  do  he?  huh,  uh  1 " 

So  that  very  night  Jim  scraped  his  'possum,  and  hung 
it  out-of-doors,  and  the  next  day,  brown  as  the  forest 
whence  it  came,  it  lay  on  a  great  platter  on  Jim's  table. 
It  was  a  fat 'possum,  too.  Jim  had  just  whetted  his  knife, 
and  Mandy  had  just  finished  the  blessing  when  the  latch 
was  lifted  and  Brother  Parker  stepped  in. 

"  Hi,  oh,  Brothah  Jim,  I's  des  in  time." 

Jim  sat  with  his  mouth  open.  "  Draw  up  a  cheer, 
Brothah  Pahkah,"  said  Mandy.  Her  husband  rose,  and 
put  his  hand  over  the  'possum. 

"  Wha — wha'd  you  come  hyeah  fu'  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  thought  I'd  des'  come  in  an'  tek  a  bite  wid  you." 

"  Ain'  gwine  tek  no  bite  wid  me,"  said  Jim. 

"  Heish,"  said  Mandy,  "  wha'  kin'  o'  way  is  dat  to  talk 
to  de  preachah  ?  " 

"  Preachah  or  no  preachah,  you  hyeah  what  I  say,"  and 
he  took  the  'possum,  and  put  it  on  the  highest  shelf. 


388  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

"  Wha's  de  mattah  wid  you,  Jim?  dat's  one  o'  de  'quiah- 
ments  o'  de  chu'ch." 

The  angry  man  turned  to  the  preacher. 

"  Is  it  one  o'  de  'quiahments  o'  de  chu'ch  dat  you  eat 
hyeah  ter-night  ?  " 

"  Hit  sholy  am  usual  fu'  de  shepherd  to  sup  wherevah 
he  stop,"  said  Parker,  suavely. 

"  Ve'y  well,  ve'y  well/'  said  Jim,  "  I  wants  you  to  know 
dat  I  'specs  to  stay  out  o'  yo'  chu'ch.  I's  got  two  weeks 
mo'  p'obation.  You  tek  hit  back,  an'  gin  hit  to  de  nex' 
niggah  you  ketches  wid  a  'possum." 

Mandy  was  horrified.  The  preacher  looked  longingly 
at  the  'possum,  and  took  up  his  hat  to  go. 

There  were  two  disappointed  men  on  the  plantation 
when  he  told  his  master  the  next  day  the  outcome  of 
Jim's  probation. 


. 


DAT  JIM 


"You  OLD  SCOUNDREL,"  SAID  A  WELL-KNOWN  VOICE 


A  SUPPER  BY  PROXY 

THERE  was  an  air  of  suppressed  excitement  about  the 
whole  plantation.  The  big  old  house  stared  gravely  out 
as  if  it  could  tell  great  things  if  it  would,  and  the  cabins 
in  the  quarters  looked  prophetic.  The  very  dogs  were  on 
the  alert,  and  there  was  expectancy  even  in  the  eyes  of  the 
piccaninnies  who  rolled  in  the  dust.  Something  was  go- 
ing to  happen.  There  was  no  denying  that.  The  wind 
whispered  it  to  the  trees  and  the  trees  nodded. 

Then  there  was  a  clatter  of  horses'  hoofs,  the  crack  of 
a  whip.  The  bays  with  the  family  carriage  swept  round 
the  drive  and  halted  at  the  front  porch.  Julius  was  on  the 
box,  resplendent  in  his  holiday  livery.  This  was  the  signal 
for  a  general  awakening.  The  old  house  leered  an  irri- 
tating "  I  told  you  so.'1  The  quarters  looked  complacent. 
The  dogs  ran  and  barked,  the  piccaninnies  laughed  and 
shouted,  the  servants  gathered  on  the  lawn  and,  in  the 
midst  of  it  all,  the  master  and  mistress  came  down  the 
steps  and  got  into  the  carriage.  Another  crack  of  the 
whip,  a  shout  from  the  servants,  more  antics  from  the 
piccaninnies,  the  scurrying  of  the  dogs — and  the  vehicle 
rumbled  out  of  sight  behind  a  clump  of  maples.  Immedi- 
ately the  big  house  resumed  its  natural  appearance  and 
the  quarters  settled  back  into  whitewashed  respectability. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mordaunt  were  off  for  a  week's  visit.  The 
boys  were  away  at  school,  and  here  was  the  plantation 
left  in  charge  of  the  negroes  themselves,  except  for  the 
presence  of  an  overseer  who  did  not  live  on  the  place. 


392  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

The  conditions  seemed  pregnant  of  many  things,  but  a 
calm  fell  on  the  place  as  if  every  one  had  decided  to  be 
particularly  upon  his  good  behavior.  The  piccaninnies 
were  subdued.  The  butlers  in  the  big  house  bowed  with 
wonderful  deference  to  the  maids  as  they  passed  them  in 
the  halls,  and  the  maids  called  the  butlers  "  mister"  when 
they  spoke  to  them.  Only  now  and  again  from  the  fields 
could  a  song  be  heard.  All  this  was  ominous. 

By  the  time  that  night  came  many  things  were  changed. 
The  hilarity  of  the  little  darkies  had  grown,  and  although 
the  house  servants  still  remained  gravely  quiet,  on  the  re- 
turn of  the  field  hands  the  quarters  became  frankly  joy- 
ous. From  one  cabin  to  another  could  be  heard  the 
sound  of  "  Juba,  Juba ! "  and  the  loud  patting  of  hands 
and  the  shuffling  of  feet.  Now  and  again  some  voice 
could  be  heard  rising  above  the  rest,  improvising  a  verse 
of  the  song,  as : 

"  Mas'  done  gone  to  Philamundelphy,  Juba,  Juba. 
Lef '  us  bacon,  lef  us  co'n  braid,  Juba,  Juba. 
Oh,  Juba  dis  an'  Juba  dat,  an'  Juba  skinned  de  yaller  cat 
To  mek  his  wife  a  Sunday  hat,  oh,  Juba !  " 

Not  long  did  the  sounds  continue  to  issue  from  isolated 
points.  The  people  began  drifting  together,  and  when  a 
goodly  number  had  gathered  at  a  large  cabin,  the  inevita- 
ble thing  happened.  Some  one  brought  out  a  banjo  and 
a  dance  followed. 

Meanwhile,  from  the  vantage  ground  of  the  big  house, 
the  more  favored  servants  looked  disdainfully  on,  and  at 
the  same  time  consulted  together.  That  they  should  do 
something  to  entertain  themselves  was  only  right  and 
proper.  No  one  of  ordinary  intelligence  could  think  for 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  393 

a  moment  of  letting  this  opportunity  slip  without  taking 
advantage  of  it.  But  a  dance  such  as  the  quarters  had  ! 
Bah  1  They  could  never  think  of  it.  That  rude,  informal 
affair  1  And  these  black  aristocrats  turned  up  their  noses. 
No,  theirs  must  be  a  grave  and  dignified  affair,  such  as 
their  master  himself  would  have  given,  and  they  would 
send  out  invitations  to  some  on  the  neighboring  planta- 
tions. 

It  was  Julius,  the  coachman,  who,  after  winning  around 
the  head  butler,  Anderson,  insisted  that  they  ought  to 
give  a  grand  supper.  Julius  would  have  gone  on  without 
the  butler's  consent  had  it  not  been  that  Anderson  carried 
the  keys.  So  the  matter  was  canvassed  and  settled. 

The  next  business  was  the  invitations,  but  no  one  could 
write.  Still,  this  was  a  slight  matter;  for  neatly  folded 
envelopes  were  carried  about  to  the  different  favored 
ones,  containing — nothing,  while  at  the  same  time  the  in- 
vitations were  proffered  by  word  of  mouth. 

"  Hi,  dah  ! "  cried  Jim  to  Julius,  on  the  evening  that  the 
cards  had  been  distributed ;  "  I  ain't  seed  my  inbitation 
yit." 

"  You  needn't  keep  yo'  eyes  bucked  looking  fu'  none, 
neithah,"  replied  Julius. 

"  Uh,  puttin'  on  airs,  is  you  ?  " 

"  I  don't  caih  to  convuss  wid  you  jest  now,"  said  Julius 
pompously. 

Jim  guffawed.  "  Well,  of  all  de  sights  I  evah  seed,  a 
dahky  coachman  offen  de  box  tryin'  to  look  lak  he  on  it ! 
Go  'long,  Julius,  er  you'll  sholy  kill  me,  man." 

The  coachman  strode  on  with  angry  dignity. 

It  had  been  announced  that  the  supper  was  to  be  a 
"  ladies'  an'  gent'men's  pahty,"  and  so  but  few  from  the 


394  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

quarters  were  asked.  The  quarters  were  naturally  angry 
and  a  bit  envious,  for  they  were  but  human  and  not  yet 
intelligent  enough  to  recognize  the  vast  social  gulf  that 
yawned  between  the  blacks  at  the  "  big  house  "  and  the 
blacks  who  were  quartered  in  the  cabins. 

The  night  of  the  grand  affair  arrived,  and  the  Mordaunt 
mansion  was  as  resplendent  as  it  had  ever  been  for  one 
of  the  master's  festivities.  The  drawing-rooms  were  gaily 
festooned,  and  the  long  dining-room  was  a  blaze  of  light 
from  the  wax  candles  that  shone  oh  the  glory  of  the  Mor- 
daunt plate.  Nothing  but  the  best  had  satisfied  Julius 
and  Anderson.  By  nine  o'clock  the  outside  guests  began 
to  arrive.  They  were  the  dark  aristocrats  of  the  region. 
It  was  a  well-dressed  assembly,  too.  Plump  brown  arms 
lay  against  the  dainty  folds  of  gleaming  muslin,  and 
white-stocked,  brass-buttoned  black  counterparts  of  their 
masters  strode  up  the  walks.  There  were  Dudley  Stone's 
Gideon  and  Martha,  Robert  Curtis'  Ike  with  Dely,  and 
there  were  Quinn,  and  Doshy,  and,  over  them  all,  Aunt 
Tempe  to  keep  them  straight.  Of  these  was  the  company 
that  sat  down  to  Stuart  Mordaunt' s  board. 

After  some  rivalry,  Anderson  held  the  head  of  the  table, 
while  Julius  was  appeased  by  being  placed  on  the  right 
beside  his  favorite  lady.  Aunt  Tempe  was  opposite  the 
host  where  she  could  reprove  any  unseemly  levity  or 
tendency  to  skylarking  on  the  part  of  the  young  people. 
No  state  dinner  ever  began  with  more  dignity.  The  con- 
versation was  nothing  less  than  stately,  and  everybody 
bowed  to  everybody  else  every  time  they  thought  about 
it.  This  condition  of  affairs  obtained  through  the  soup. 
Somebody  ventured  a  joke  and  there  was  even  a  light 
laugh  during  the  fish.  By  the  advent  of  the  entree  the 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  395 

tongues  of  the  assembly  had  loosened  up,  and  their 
laughter  had  melted  and  flowed  as  freely  as  Stuart  Mor- 
daunt's  wine. 

"  Well,  I  mus'  say,  Mistah  An'erson,  dis  is  sholy  a  mos' 
salub'ious  occasion." 

"  Thank  you,  Mistah  Cu'tis,  thank  you  ;  it  ah  allus  my 
endeavoh  to  mek  my  gues'es  feel  deyse'ves  at  home. 
Let  me  give  you  some  mo'  of  dis  wine.  It's  f  om  de  bes' 
dat's  in  my  cellah." 

"  Seems  lak  I  remembah  de  vintage,"  said  Ike,  sipping 
slowly  and  with  the  air  of  a  connoisseur. 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  drinked  some  o'  dis  on  de  'casion  of  my 
darter's  ma'ige  to  Mas' — to  Mistah  Daniels." 

"I  ricollec',  yes,  I  ricollec'." 

"  Des  lis'en  at  dem  dahkies,"  said  the  voice  of  a  listen- 
ing field  hand. 

Gideon,  as  was  his  wont,  was  saying  deeply  serious 
things  to  Martha,  and  Quinn  whispered  something  in 
Doshy's  ear  that  made  her  giggle  hysterically  and  cry : 
"Now,  Mr.  Quinn,  ain't  you  scan'lous?  You  des  seem 
lak  you  possessed  dis  evenin'." 

In  due  time,  however,  the  ladies  withdrew,  and  the  gen- 
tlemen were  left  over  their  cigars  and  cognac.  It  was 
then  that  one  of  the  boys  detailed  to  wait  on  the  table 
came  in  and  announced  to  the  host  that  a  tramp  was 
without  begging  for  something  to  eat.  At  the  same  in- 
stant the  straggler's  face  appeared  at  the  door,  a  poor, 
unkempt-looking  white  fellow  with  a  very  dirty  face. 
Anderson  cast  a  look  over  his  shoulder  at  him  and  com- 
manded pompously : 

"  Tek  him  to  de  kitchen  an'  give  him  all  he  wants." 

The  fellow  went  away  very  humbly. 


396  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

In  a  few  minutes  Aunt  Tempe  opened  the  dining-room 
door  and  came  in. 

"  An'erson,"  she  cried  in  a  whisper. 

"  Madam/'  said  the  butler  rising  in  dignity,  "  excuse 
me — but " 

"  Hyeah,  don't  you  come  no  foo'ishness  wid  me  ;  I  ain't 
no  madam.  Fs  tiahed  playing  fine  lady.  I  done  been 
out  to  de  kitchen,  an'  I  don'  lak  dat  tramp's  face  an' 
fo'm." 

"  Well,  madam,"  said  Anderson  urbanely,  "  we  haven't 
asked  you  to  ma'y  him." 

At  this  there  was  a  burst  of  laughter  from  the  table. 

"  Nemmine,  nemmine,  I  tell  you,  I  don'  lak  dat  tramp's 
face  an'  fo'm,  an'  you'd  bettah  keep  yo'  eye  skinned,  er 
you'll  be  laughin'  on  de  othah  side  o'  yo'  mouf." 

The  butler  gently  pushed  the  old  lady  out,  but  as  the 
door  closed  behind  her  she  was  still  saying,  "  I  don'  lak 
dat  tramp's  face  an'  fo'm." 

Unused  to  playing  fine  lady  so  long,  Aunt  Tempe 
deserted  her  charges  and  went  back  to  the  kitchen,  but 
the  "  straggler  man  "  had  gone.  It  is  a  good  thing  she 
did  not  go  around  the  veranda,  where  the  windows  of  the 
dining-room  opened,  or  she  would  have  been  considera- 
bly disturbed  to  see  the  tramp  peeping  through  the  blinds 
— evidently  at  the  Mordaunt  plate  that  sparkled  con- 
spicuously on  the  table. 

Anderson  with  his  hand  in  his  coat,  quite  after  the 
manner  of  Stuart  Mordaunt,  made  a  brief  speech  in  which 
he  thanked  his  guests  for  the  honor  they  had  done  him  in 
coming  to  his  humble  home.  "  I  know,"  he  said,  "  I 
have  done  my  po'  bes' ;  but  at  some  latah  day  I  hopes  to 
entertain  you  in  a  mannah  dat  de  position  an'  character 


,  OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  397 

of  de  gent' men  hyeah  assembled  desuves.  Let  us  now 
jine  de  ladies." 

His  hand  was  on  the  door  and  all  the  gentlemen  were 
on  their  feet  when  suddenly  the  window  was  thrown  up 
and  in  stepped  the  straggler. 

"  W'y,  w'y,  how  daih  you,  suh,  invade  my  premises  ?  " 
asked  Anderson,  casting  a  withering  glance  at  the  in- 
truder, who  stood  gazing  around  him. 

"  Leave  de  room  dis  minute  1 "  cried  Julius,  anxious  to 
be  in  the  fray.  But  the  tramp's  eyes  were  fastened  on 
Anderson.  Finally  he  raised  one  finger  and  pointed  at 
him. 

"  You  old  scoundrel,"  he  said  in  a  well-known  voice,  as 
he  snatched  off  his  beard  and  wig  and  threw  aside  his 
disguising  duster  and  stood  before  them. 

"  Mas'  Stu'at ! " 

"  You  old  scoundrel,  you  !     I've  caught  you,  have  I  ?  " 

Anderson  was  speechless  and  transfixed,  but  the  others 
were  not,  and  they  had  cleared  that  room  before  the 
master's  linen  duster  was  well  off.  In  a  moment  the 
shuffling  of  feet  ceased  and  the  lights  went  out  in  the 
parlor.  The  two  stood  there  alone,  facing  each  other 

"  Mas'  Stu'at." 

"  Silence,"  said  Mordaunt,  raising  his  hand,  and  taking 
a  step  towards  the  trembling  culprit. 

"  Don'  hit  me  now,  Mas'  Stu'at,  don'  hit  me  ontwell  I's 
kin'  o'  shuk  off  yo'  pussonality.  Ef  you  do,  it'll  be  des' 
de  same  ez  thumpin'  yo'se'f." 

Mordaunt  turned  quickly  and  stood  for  a  moment  look- 
ing through  the  window,  but  his  shoulders  shook. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  turning ;  "  do  you  think  you've  at  last 
relieved  yourself  of  my  personality  ?  " 


398  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

"  I  don't  know,  I  don't  know.  De  gyahment  sho'  do 
fit  monstrous  tight." 

"Humph.  You  take  my  food,  you  take  my  wine, 
you  take  my  cigars,  and  now  even  my  personality  isn't 
safe. 

"  Look  here,  what  on  earth  do  you  mean  by  entertain- 
ing half  the  darkies  in  the  county  in  my  dining-room  ?  " 

Anderson  scratched  his  head  and  thought.  Then  he 
said :  "  Well,  look  hyeah,  Mas'  Stu'at,  dis  hyeah  wasn't 
rightly  my  suppah  noways." 

"Not  your  supper  !    Whose  was  it  ? " 

"Yo'n." 

"Mine?" 

"Yes,  suh." 

"  Why,  what's  the  matter  with  you,  Anderson  ?  Next 
thing  you'll  be  telling  me  that  I  planned  it  all,  and  invited 
all  those  servants." 

"  Lemme  'splain  it,  Mas',  lemme  'splain  it.  Now  I 
didn't  give  dat  suppah  as  An'erson.  I  give  it  ez  Mas' 
Stu'at  Mordaunt ;  an'  Quinn  an'  Ike  an'  Gidjon,  dey 
didn't  come  fu'  deyse'ves,  dey  come  fu*  Mas'  Cu'tis,  an' 
Mas'  Dudley  Stone.  Don'  you  un'erstan',  Mas'  Stu'at? 
We  wasn'  we-all,  we  was  you-all." 

"  That's  very  plain  ;  and  in  other  words,  I  gave  a  sup- 
per by  proxy,  and  all  my  friends  responded  in  the  same 
manner  ?  " 

"  Well,  ef  dat  means  what  I  said,  dat's  it." 

"  Your  reasoning  is  extremely  profound,  Anderson.  It 
does  you  great  credit,  but  if  I  followed  your  plan  I  should 
give  you  the  thrashing  you  deserve  by  proxy.  That 
would  just  suit  you.  So  instead  of  that  I  am  going  to 
feed  you,  for  the  next  day  or  so,  by  that  ingenious 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  399 

method.     You  go  down  and  tell  Jim  that  I  want  him  up 
here  early  to-morrow  morning  to  eat  your  breakfast.'* 

"  Oh,  Mas'  Stu'at !  Whup  me,  whup  me,  but  don't  tell 
dose  dahkies  in  de  quahtahs,  an'  don't  sta've  me ! "  For 
Anderson  loved  the  good  things  of  life. 

"  Go." 

Anderson  went,  and  Mordaunt  gave  himself  up  to 
mirth. 

The   quarters  got  their  laugh  out  of  Anderson's  dis- 
comfiture.    Jim  lived  high  for  a  day,  but  rumors  from 
the  kitchen  say  that  the  butler  did  not  really  suffer  on  ac 
count  of  his  supper  by  proxy. 


THE  FAITH  CURE  MAN 

HOPE  is  tenacious.  It  goes  on  living  and  working 
when  science  has  dealt  it  what  should  be  its  death-blow. 

In  the  close  room  at  the  top  of  the  old  tenement  house 
little  Lucy  lay  wasting  away  with  a  relentless  disease. 
The  doctor  had  said  at  the  beginning  of  the  winter  that 
she  could  not  live.  Now  he  said  that  he  could  do  no 
more  for  her  except  to  ease  the  few  days  that  remained 
for  the  child. 

But  Martha  Benson  would  not  believe  him.  She  was 
confident  that  doctors  were  not  infallible.  Anyhow,  this 
one  wasn't,  for  she  saw  life  and  health  ahead  for  her  little 
one. 

Did  not  the  preacher  at  the  Mission  Home  say :  "  Ask, 
and  ye  shall  receive  "  ?  and  had  she  not  asked  and  asked 
again  the  life  of  her  child,  her  last  and  only  one,  at  the 
hands  of  him  whom  she  worshiped  ? 

No,  Lucy  was  not  going  to  die.  What  she  needed  was 
country  air  and  a  place  to  run  about  in.  She  had  been 
housed  up  too  much  ;  these  long  Northern  winters  were 
too  severe  for  her,  and  that  was  what  made  her  so  pinched 
and  thin  and  weak.  She  must  have  air,  and  she  should 
have  it. 

"  Po'  little  lammie,"  she  said  to  the  child,  "  mammy's 
little  gal  boun'  to  git  well.  Mammy  gwine  sen'  huh  out 
in  de  country  when  the  spring  comes,  whaih  she  kin  roll 
in  de  grass  an'  pick  flowers  an'  git  good  an'  strong.  Don' 
baby  want  to  go  to  de  country  ?  Don'  baby  want  to  see 

400 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  401 

de  sun  shine  ?  "  And  the  child  had  looked  up  at  her  with 
wide,  bright  eyes,  tossed  her  thin  arms  and  moaned  for 
reply, 

"  Nemmine,  we  gwine  fool  dat  doctah.  Some  day 
we'll  th'ow  all  his  nassy  medicine  'way,  an'  he  come  in 
an'  say  :  '  Whaih's  all  my  medicine  ?  '  Den  we  answeh 
up  sma't  like  :  '  We  done  th'owed  it  out.  We  don'  need 
no  nassy  medicine.'  Den  he  look  'roun'  an'  say  :  *  Who 
dat  I  see  runnin'  roun'  de  flo'  hyeah,  a-lookin'  so  fat  ? ' 
an'  you  up  an'  say :  *  Hit's  me,  dat's  who  'tis,  mistah 
doctor  man  1 '  Den  he  go  out  an'  slam  de  do'  behin' 
him.  Ain'  dat  fine  ?  " 

But  the  child  had  closed  her  eyes,  too  weak  even  to 
listen.  So  her  mother  kissed  her  little  thin  forehead  and 
tiptoed  out,  sending  in  a  child  from  across  the  hall  to  take 
care  of  Lucy  while  she  was  at  work,  for  sick  as  the  little 
one  was  she  could  not  stay  at  home  and  nurse  her. 

Hope  grasps  at  a  straw,  and  it  was  quite  in  keeping 
with  the  condition  of  Martha's  mind  that  she  should  open 
her  ears  and  her  heart  when  they  told  her  of  the  wonder- 
ful works  of  the  faith-cure  man.  People  had  gone  to  him 
on  crutches,  and  he  had  touched  or  rubbed  them  and  they 
had  come  away  whole.  He  had  gone  to  the  homes  of  the 
bed-ridden,  and  they  had  risen  up  to  bless  him.  It  was 
so  easy  for  her  to  believe  it  all.  The  only  religion  she 
had  never  known,  the  wild,  emotional  religion  of  most  of 
her  race,  put  her  credulity  to  stronger  tests  than  that. 
Her  only  question  was,  would  such  a  man  come  to  her 
humble  room.  But  she  put  away  even  this  thought.  He 
must  come.  She  would  make  him.  Already  she  saw 
Lucy  strong,  and  running  about  like  a  mouse,  the  joy  of 
her  heart  and  the  light  of  her  eyes. 


402  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

As  soon  as  she  could  get  time  she  went  humbly  to  see 
the  faith  doctor,  and  laid  her  case  before  him,  hoping, 
fearing,  trembling. 

Yes,  he  would  come.     Her  heart  leaped  for  joy. 

"  There  is  no  place,"  said  the  faith  curist,  "  too  humble 
for  the  messenger  of  heaven  to  enter.  I  am  following 
One  who  went  among  the  humblest  and  the  lowliest,  and 
was  not  ashamed  to  be  found  among  publicans  and  sinners. 
I  will  come  to  your  child,  madam,  and  put  her  again  un- 
der the  law.  The  law  of  life  is  health,  and  no  one  who 
will  accept  the  law  need  be  sick.  I  am  not  a  physician. 
I  do  not  claim  to  be.  I  only  claim  to  teach  people  how 
not  to  be  sick.  My  fee  is  five  dollars,  merely  to  defray 
my  expenses,  that's  all.  You  know  the  servant  is  worthy 
of  his  hire.  And  in  this  little  bottle  here  I  have  an  elixir 
which  has  never  been  known  to  fail  in  any  of  the  things 
claimed  for  it.  Since  the  world  has  got  used  to  taking 
medicine  we  must  make  some  concessions  to  its  preju- 
dices. But  this  in  reality  is  not  a  medicine  at  all.  It  is 
only  a  symbol.  It  is  really  liquefied  prayer  and  faith." 

Martha  did  not  understand  anything  of  what  he  was 
saying.  She  did  not  try  to  ;  she  did  not  want  to.  She 
only  felt  a  blind  trust  in  him  that  filled  her  heart  with  un- 
speakable gladness. 

Tremul  Jus  with  excitement,  she  doled  out  her  poor  dol- 
lars to  him,  seized  the  precious  elixir  and  hurried  away 
home  to  Lucy,  to  whom  she  was  carrying  life  and  strength. 
The  little  one  made  a  weak  attempt  to  smile  at  her 
mother,  but  the  light  flickered  away  and  died  into  gray- 
ness  on  her  face. 

"  Now  mammy's  little  gal  gwine  to  git  well  fu'  sho'. 
Mammy  done  bring  huh  somep'n'  good."  Awed  and 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  403 

reverent,  she  tasted  the  wonderful  elixir  before  giving  it 
to  the  child.  It  tasted  very  like  sweetened  water  to  her,  but 
she  knew  that  it  was  not,  and  had  no  doubt  of  its  virtues. 

Lucy  swallowed  it  as  she  swallowed  everything  her 
mother  brought  to  her.  Poor  little  one  !  She  had  noth- 
ing to  buoy  her  up  or  to  fight  science  with. 

In  the  course  of  an  hour  her  mother  gave  her  the  medi- 
cine again,  and  persuaded  herself  that  there  was  a  per- 
ceptible brightening  in  her  daughter's  face. 

Mrs.  Mason,  Caroline's  mother,  called  across  the  hall : 
"  How  Lucy  dis  evening  Mis'  Benson  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  think  Lucy  air  right  peart,"  Martha  replied. 
"  Come  over  an'  look  at  huh." 

Mrs.  Mason  came,  and  the  mother  told  her  about  the 
new  faith  doctor  and  his  wonderful  powers. 

"  Why,  Mis'  Mason,"  she  said,  "  'pears  like  I  could  see 
de  change  in  de  child  de  minute  she  swallowed  dat  medi- 
cine." 

Her  neighbor  listened  in  silence,  but  when  she  went 
back  to  her  own  room  it  was  to  shake  her  head  and  mur- 
mur :  "  Po'  Marfy,  she  jes'  ez  blind  ez  a  bat.  She  jes'  go 
'long,  holdin'  on  to  dat  chile  wid  all  huh  might,  an'  I  see 
death  in  Lucy's  face  now.  Dey  ain't  no  faif  nur  prayer, 
nur  jack-leg  doctors  nuther  gwine  to  save  huh." 

But  Martha  needed  no  pity  then.  She  was  happy  in 
her  self-delusion. 

On  the  morrow  the  faith  doctor  came  to  see  Lucy.  She 
had  not  seemed  so  well  that  morning,  even  to  her  mother, 
who  remained  at  home  until  the  doctor  arrived.  He  car- 
ried a  conquering  air,  and  a  baggy  umbrella,  the  latter  of 
which  he  laid  across  the  foot  of  the  bed  as  he  bent  over 
the  moaning  child. 


404  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

"  Give  me  some  brown  paper,"  he  commanded. 

Martha  hastened  to  obey,  and  the  priestly  practitioner 
dampened  it  in  water  and  laid  it  on  Lucy's  head,  all  the 
time  murmuring  prayers — or  were  they  incantations? — 
to  himself.  Then  he  placed  pieces  of  the  paper  on  the 
soles  of  the  child's  feet  and  on  the  palms  of  her  hands, 
and  bound  them  there. 

When  all  this  was  done  he  knelt  down  and  prayed 
aloud,  ending  with  a  peculiar  version  of  the  Lord's  prayer, 
supposed  to  have  mystic  effect.  Martha  was  greatly  im- 
pressed, but  through  it  all  Lucy  lay  and  moaned. 

The  faith  curist  rose  to  go.  "  Well,  we  can  look  to 
have  her  out  in  a  few  days.  Remember,  my  good  woman, 
much  depends  upon  you.  You  must  try  to  keep  your 
mind  in  a  state  of  belief.  Are  you  saved  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  suh.  I'm  a  puffessor,"  said  Martha,  and 
having  completed  his  mission,  the  man  of  prayers  went 
out,  and  Caroline  again  took  Martha's  place  at  Lucy's 
side. 

In  the  next  two  days  Martha  saw,  or  thought  she  saw, 
a  steady  improvement  in  Lucy.  According  to  instruc- 
tions, the  brown  paper  was  moved  every  day,  moistened, 
and  put  back. 

Martha  had  so  far  spurred  her  faith  that  when  she  went 
out  on  Saturday  morning  she  promised  to  bring  Lucy 
something  good  for  her  Christmas  dinner,  and  a  pair  of 
shoes  against  the  time  of  her  going  out,  and  also  a  little 
doll.  She  brought  them  home  that  night.  Caroline  had 
grown  tired  and,  lighting  the  lamp,  had  gone  home. 

"  I  done  brung  my  little  lady  bird  huh  somep'n1  nice," 
said  Martha,  "  here's  a  HP  doll  and  de  HI'  shoes,  honey. 
How's  de  baby  feel  ?  "  Lucy  did  not  answer. 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  405 

"You  sleep?"  Martha  went  over  to  the  bed.  The 
little  face  was  pinched  and  ashen.  The  hands  were  cold. 

"Lucy!  Lucy!"  called  the  mother.  "Lucy!  Oh, 
Gawd  !  It  ain't  true  !  She  ain't  daid  !  My  little  one, 
my  las'  one  !  " 

She  rushed  for  the  elixir  and  brought  it  to  the  bed.  The 
thin  dead  face  stared  back  at  her,  unresponsive. 

She  sank  down  beside  the  bed,  moaning.  "  Daid, 
daid,  oh,  my  Gawd,  gi'  me  back  my  chile  !  Oh,  don't  I 
believe  you  enough?  Oh,  Lucy,  Lucy,  my  little  lamb! 
I  got  you  yo'  gif.  Oh,  Lucy  !  " 

The  next  day  was  set  apart  for  the  funeral.  The  Mis- 
sion preacher  read :  "  The  Lord  giveth  and  the  Lord 
taketh  away,  blessed  be  the  name  of  the  Lord,"  and  some 
one  said  "  Amen ! "  But  Martha  could  not  echo  it  in  her 
heart.  Lucy  was  her  last,  her  one  treasured  lamb. 


THE  WISDOM  OF  SILENCE 

JEREMIAH  ANDERSON  was  free.  He  had  been  free  for 
ten  years,  and  he  was  proud  of  it.  He  had  been  proud 
of  it  from  the  beginning,  and  that  was  the  reason  that  he 
was  one  of  the  first  to  cast  off  the  bonds  of  his  old 
relations,  and  move  from  the  plantation  and  take  up  land 
for  himself.  He  was  anxious  to  cut  himself  off  from  all 
that  bound  him  to  his  former  life.  So  strong  was  this 
feeling  in  him  that  he  would  not  consent  to  stay  on  and 
work  for  his  one-time  owner  even  for  a  full  wage. 

To  the  proposition  of  the  planter  and  the  gibes  of  some 
of  his  more  dependent  fellows  he  answered,  "  No,  suh, 
Fs  free,  an*  I  sholy  is  able  to  tek  keer  o'  myse'f.  I  done 
been  fattenin'  frogs  fu'  othah  people's  snakes  too  long 
now." 

"  But,  Jerry,"  said  Samuel  Brabant,  "  I  don't  mean  you 
any  harm.  The  thing's  done.  You  don't  belong  to  me 
any  more,  but  naturally,  I  take  an  interest  in  you,  and 
want  to  do  what  I  can  to  give  you  a  start.  It's  more 
than  the  Northern  government  has  done  for  you,  although 
such  wise  men  ought  to  know  that  you  have  had  no 
training  in  caring  for  yourselves." 

There  was  a  slight  sneer  in  the  Southerner's  voice. 
Jerry  perceived  it  and  thought  it  directed  against  him. 
Instantly  his  pride  rose  and  his  neck  stiffened. 

"  Nemmine  me,"  he  answered,  "  nemmine  me.  I's 
free,  an'  w'en  a  man's  free,  he's  free." 

"  All  right,  go  your  own  way.  You  may  have  to  come 

406 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  407 

back  to  me  some  time.  If  you  have  to  come,  come.  I 
don't  blame  you  now.  It  must  be  a  great  thing  to  you, 
this  dream — this  nightmare."  Jerry  looked  at  him. 
"  Oh,  it  isn't  a  nightmare  now,  but  some  day,  maybe,  it 
will  be,  then  come  to  me." 

The  master  turned  away  from  the  newly  made  free- 
man, and  Jerry  went  forth  into  the  world  which  was 
henceforth  to  be  his.  He  took  with  him  his  few  belong- 
ings ;  these  largely  represented  by  his  wife  and  four 
lusty-eating  children.  Besides,  he  owned  a  little  money, 
which  he  had  got  working  for  others  when  his  master's 
task  was  done.  Thus,  burdened  and  equipped,  he  set 
out  to  tempt  Fortune. 

He  might  do  one  of  two  things — farm  land  upon  shares 
for  one  of  his  short-handed  neighbors,  or  buy  a  farm, 
mortgage  it,  and  pay  for  it  as  he  could.  As  was  natural 
for  Jerry,  and  not  uncommendable,  he  chose  at  once  the 
latter  course,  bargained  for  his  twenty  acres — for  land 
was  cheap  then,  bought  his  mule,  built  his  cabin,  and  set 
up  his  household  goods. 

Now,  slavery  may  give  a  man  the  habit  of  work,  but 
it  cannot  imbue  him  with  the  natural  thrift  that  long 
years  of  self-dependence  brings.  There  were  times  when 
Jerry's  freedom  tugged  too  strongly  at  his  easy  incli- 
nation, drawing  him  away  to  idle  when  he  should  have 
toiled.  What  was  the  use  of  freedom,  asked  an  inward 
voice,  if  one  might  not  rest  when  one  would  ?  If  he 
might  not  stop  midway  the  furrow  to  listen  and  laugh  at 
a  droll  story  or  tell  one  ?  If  he  might  not  go  a-fishing 
when  all  the  forces  of  nature  invited  and  the  jay-bird 
called  from  the  tree  and  gave  forth  saucy  banter  like  the 
fiery,  blue  shrew  that  she  was  ? 


4o8  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

There  were  times  when  his  compunction  held  Jerry  to 
his  task,  but  more  often  he  turned  an  end  furrow  and  laid 
his  misgivings  snugly  under  it  and  was  away  to  the 
woods  or  the  creek.  There  was  joy  and  a  loaf  for  the 
present.  What  more  could  he  ask  ? 

The  first  year  Fortune  laughed  at  him,  and  her  laugh 
is  very  different  from  her  smile.  She  sent  the  swift  rains 
to  wash  up  the  new  planted  seed,  and  the  hungry  birds  to 
devour  them.  She  sent  the  fierce  sun  to  scorch  the 
young  crops,  and  the  clinging  weeds  to  hug  the  fresh 
greenness  of  his  hope  to  death.  She  sent — cruelest  jest 
of  all — another  baby  to  be  fed,  and  so  weakened  Cindy 
Ann  that  for  many  days  she  could  not  work  beside  her 
husband  in  the  fields. 

Poverty  began  to  teach  the  unlessoned  delver  in  the  soil 
the  thrift  which  he  needed  ;  but  he  ended  his  first  twelve 
months  with  barely  enough  to  eat,  and  nothing  paid  on 
his  land  or  his  mule.  Broken  and  discouraged,  the 
words  of  his  old  master  came  to  him.  But  he  was  proud 
with  an  obstinate  pride  and  he  shut  his  lips  together  so 
that  he  might  not  groan.  He  would  not  go  to  his  mas- 
ter. Anything  rather  than  that. 

In  that  place  sat  certain  beasts  of  prey,  dealers,  and 
lenders  of  money,  who  had  their  lairs  somewhere  within 
the  boundaries  of  that  wide  and  mysterious  domain  called 
The  Law.  They  had  their  risks  to  run,  but  so  must  all 
beasts  that  eat  flesh  or  drink  blood.  To  them  went 
Jerry,  and  they  were  kind  to  him.  They  gave  him  of 
their  store.  They  gave  him  food  and  seed,  but  they 
were  to  own  all  that  they  gave  him  from  what  he  raised, 
and  they  were  to  take  their  toll  first  from  the  new  crops. 

Now,  the  black  had  been  warned  against  these  same 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  409 

beasts,  for  others  had  fallen  a  prey  to  them  even  in  so 
short  a  time  as  their  emancipation  measured,  and  they 
saw  themselves  the  re-manacled  slaves  of  a  hopeless  and 
ever-growing  debt,  but  Jerry  would  not  be  warned.  He 
chewed  the  warnings  like  husks  between  his  teeth,  and 
got  no  substance  from  them. 

Then,  Fortune,  who  deals  in  surprises,  played  him  an- 
other trick.  She  smiled  upon  him.  His  second  year  was 
better  than  his  first,  and  the  brokers  swore  over  his  paid 
up  note.  Cindy  Ann  was  strong  again  and  the  oldest 
boy  was  big  enough  to  help  with  the  work. 

Samuel  Brabant  was  displeased,  not  because  he  felt 
any  malice  towards  his  former  servant,  but  for  the  reason 
that  any  man  with  the  natural  amount  of  human  vanity 
must  feel  himself  aggrieved  just  as  his  cherished  prophecy 
is  about  to  come  true.  Isaiah  himself  could  not  have 
been  above  it.  How  much  less,  then,  the  uninspired  Mr. 
Brabant,  who  had  his  "  I  told  you  so,"  all  ready.  He  had 
been  ready  to  help  Jerry  after  giving  him  admonitions, 
but  here  it  was  not  needed.  An  unused  "  I  told  you  so," 
however  kindly,  is  an  acid  that  turns  the  milk  of  human 
kindness  sour. 

Jerry  went  on  gaining  in  prosperity.  The  third  year 
treated  him  better  than  the  second,  and  the  fourth  better 
than  the  third.  During  the  fifth  he  enlarged  his  farm  and 
his  house  and  took  pride  in  the  fact  that  his  oldest  boy, 
Matthew,  was  away  at  school.  By  the  tenth  year  of  his 
freedom  he  was  arrogantly  out  of  debt.  Then  his  pride 
was  too  much  for  him.  During  all  these  years  of  his 
struggle  the  words  of  his  master  had  been  as  gall  in  his 
mouth.  Now  he  spat  them  out  with  a  boast.  He  talked 
much  in  the  market-place,  and  where  many  people  gath- 


4io  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

ered,  he  was  much  there,  giving  himself  as  a  bright  and 
shining  example. 

"  Huh,"  he  would  chuckle  to  any  listeners  he  could 
find,  "  OP  Mas'  Brabant,  he  say,  '  Stay  hyeah,  stay 
hyeah,  you  do'  know  how  to  tek  keer  o'  yo'se'f  yit.' 
But  I  des'  look  at  my  two  han's  an'  I  say  to  myse'f,  whut 
I  been  doin'  wid  dese  all  dese  yeahs — tekin'  keer  o'  my- 
se'f an'  him,  too.  I  wo'k  in  de  fiel',  he  set  in  de  big 
house  an'  smoke.  I  wo'k  in  de  fiel',  his  son  go  away  to 
college  an'  come  back  a  graduate.  Das  hit.  Well,  w'en 
freedom  come,  I  des'  bent  an'  boun'  I  ain'  gwine  do  it  no 
mo'  an'  I  didn't.  Now  look  at  me.  I  sets  down  w'en  I 
wants  to.  I  does  my  own  wo' kin'  an'  my  own  smokin'o 
I  don't  owe  a  cent,  an'  dis  yeah  my  boy  gwine  graduate 
f'om  de  school.  Dat's  me,  an'  I  ain'  called  on  oP  Mas' 
yit." 

Now,  an  example  is  always  an  odious  thing,  because, 
first  of  all,  it  is  always  insolent  even  when  it  is  bad,  and 
there  were  those  who  listened  to  Jerry  who  had  not  been 
so  successful  as  he,  some  even  who  had  stayed  on  the 
plantation  and  as  yet  did  not  even  own  the  mule  they 
ploughed  with-  The  hearts  of  those  were  filled  with 
rage  and  their  mouths  with  envy.  Some  of  the  sting  of 
the  latter  got  into  their  re-telling  of  Jerry's  talk  and  made 
it  worse  than  it  was. 

Old  Samuel  Brabant  laughed  and  said,  "  Well,  Jerry's 
not  dead  yet,  and  although  I  don't  wish  him  any  harm, 
my  prophecy  might  come  true  yet." 

There  were  others  who,  hearing,  did  not  laugh,  or  if 
they  did,  it  was  with  a  mere  strained  thinning  of  the  lips 
that  had  no  element  of  mirth  in  it.  Temper  and  toler- 
ance were  short  ten  years  after  sixty-three. 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  411 

The  foolish  farmer's  boastings  bore  fruit,  and  one 
night  when  he  and  his  family  had  gone  to  church  he  re- 
turned to  find  his  house  and  barn  in  ashes,  his  mules 
burned  and  his  crop  ruined.  It  had  been  very  quietly 
done  and  quickly.  The  glare  against  the  sky  had  at- 
tracted few  from  the  near-by  town,  and  them  too  late  to 
be  of  service. 

Jerry  camped  that  night  across  the  road  from  what  re- 
mained of  his  former  dwelling.  Cindy  Ann  and  the  chil- 
dren, worn  out  and  worried,  went  to  sleep  in  spite  of 
themselves,  but  he  sat  there  all  night  long,  his  chin  be- 
tween his  knees,  gazing  at  what  had  been  his  pride. 

Well,  the  beasts  lay  in  wait  for  him  again,  and  when  he 
came  to  them  they  showed  their  fangs  in  greeting.  And 
the  velvet  was  over  their  claws.  He  had  escaped  them 
before.  He  had  impugned  their  skill  in  the  hunt,  and  they 
were  ravenous  for  him.  Now  he  was  fatter,  too.  He  went 
away  from  them  with  hard  terms,  and  a  sickness  at  his 
heart.  But  he  had  not  said  "  Yes  "  to  the  terms.  He  was 
going  home  to  consider  the  almost  hopeless  conditions 
under  which  they  would  let  him  build  again. 

They  were  staying  with  a  neighbor  in  town  pending 
his  negotiations  and  thither  he  went  to  ponder  on  his  cir- 
cumstances. Then  it  was  that  Cindy  Ann  came  into  the 
equation.  She  demanded  to  know  what  was  to  be  done 
and  how  it  was  to  be  gone  about. 

"  But  Cindy  Ann,  honey,  you  do'  know  nuffin'  'bout 
bus' ness." 

"'Tain't  whut  I  knows,  but  whut  I  got  a  right  to 
know,"  was  her  response. 

"I  do'  see  huccome  you  got  any  right  to  be  a-pryin1 
into  dese  hyeah  things." 

23 


4i2  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

"  I's  got  de  same  right  I  had  to  wo'k  an'  struggle  erlong 
an'  he'p  you  get  whut  we's  done  los'." 

Jerry  winced  and  ended  by  telling  her  all. 

"  Dat  ain't  nuffin'  but  owdacious  robbery,"  said  Cindy 
Ann.  "  Dem  people  sees  dat  you  got  a  little  somep'n', 
an'  dey  ain't  gwine  stop  ontwell  dey's  bu'nt  an'  stoled 
evah  blessed  cent  f'om  you.  Je'miah,  don't  you  have 
nuffin'  mo'  to  do  wid  'em." 

"  I  got  to,  Cindy  Ann." 

"  Whut  fu1  you  got  to  ?  " 

"  How  I  gwine  bull1  a  cabin  an'  a  ba'n  an'  buy  a  mule 
less'nldealwid'em?" 

"  Dah's  Mas'  Sam  Brabant.     He'd  he'p  you  out." 

Jerry  rose  up,  his  eyes  flashing  fire.  "  Cindy  Ann," 
he  said,  "  you  a  fool,  you  ain't  got  no  mo'  pride  den  a 
guinea  hen,  an'  you  got  a  heap  less  sense.  W'y,  befo'  I 
go  to  oP  Mas'  Sam  Brabant  fu'  a  cent,  I'd  sta've  out  in 
de  road." 

"  Huh  !  "  said  Cindy  Ann,  shutting  her  mouth  on  her 
impatience. 

One  gets  tired  of  thinking  and  saying  how  much 
more  sense  a  woman  has  than  a  man  when  she*<comes 
in  where  his  sense  stops  and  his  pride  begins. 

With  the  recklessness  of  despair  Jerry  slept  late  that 
next  morning,  but  he  might  have  awakened  early  with- 
out spoiling  his  wife's  plans.  She  was  up  betimes,  had 
gone  on  her  mission  and  returned  before  her  spouse 
awoke. 

It  was  about  ten  o'clock  when  Brabant  came  to  see 
him.  Jerry  grew  sullen  at  once  as  his  master  approached, 
but  his  pride  stiffened.  This  white  man  should  see  that 
misfortune  could  not  weaken  him. 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  413 

"  Well,  Jerry,"  said  his  former  master,  "  you  would  not 
come  to  me,  eh,  so  I  must  come  to  you.  You  let  a  little 
remark  of  mine  keep  you  from  your  best  friend,  and  put 
you  in  the  way  of  losing  the  labor  of  years." 

Jerry  made  no  answer. 

"  You've  proved  yourself  able  to  work  well,  but  Jerry," 
pausing,  "  you  haven't  yet  shown  that  you're  able  to  take 
care  of  yourself,  you  don't  know  how  to  keep  your  mouth 
shut." 

The  ex-slave  tried  to  prove  this  a  lie  by  negative  pan- 
tomime. 

"I'm  going  to  lend  you  the  money  to  start  again." 

"I  won't " 

"  Yes,  you  will,  if  you  don't,  I'll  lend  it  to  Cindy  Ann, 
and  let  her  build  in  her  own  name.  She's  got  more  sense 
than  you,  and  she  knows  how  to  keep  still  when  things 
go  well." 

"  Mas'  Sam,"  cried  Jerry,  rising  quickly,  "  don'  len'  dat 
money  to  Cindy  Ann.  W'y  ef  a  ooman's  got  anything 
she  nevah  lets  you  hyeah  de  las'  of  it." 

"  Will  you  take  it,  then  ?  " 

"  Yes,  suh  ;  yes,  suh,  an'  thank  'e,  Mas'  Sam."  There 
were  sobs  some  place  back  in  his  throat.  "  An'  nex'  time 
ef  I  evah  gets  a  sta't  agin,  I'll  keep  my  mouf  shet.  Fac' 
is,  I'll  come  to  you,  Mas'  Sam,  an'  borry  fu'  de  sake  o* 
hidin'." 


THE  SCAPEGOAT 
I 

THE  law  is  usually  supposed  to  be  a  stern  mistress, 
not  to  be  lightly  wooed,  and  yielding  only  to  the  most 
ardent  pursuit.  But  even  law,  like  love,  sits  more  easily 
on  some  natures  than  on  others. 

This  was  the  case  with  Mr.  Robinson  Asbury.  Mr. 
Asbury  had  started  life  as  a  bootblack  in  the  growing 
town  of  Cadgers.  From  this  he  had  risen  one  step  and 
become  porter  and  messenger  in  a  barber-shop.  This 
rise  fired  his  ambition,  and  he  was  not  content  until  he 
had  learned  to  use  the  shears  and  the  razor  and  had  a 
chair  of  his  own.  From  this,  in  a  man  of  Robinson's 
temperament,  it  was  only  a  step  to  a  shop  of  his  own, 
and  he  placed  it  where  it  would  do  the  most  good. 

Fully  one-half  of  the  population  of  Cadgers  was  com- 
posed of  Negroes,  and  with  their  usual  tendency  to  colo- 
nize, a  tendency  encouraged,  and  in  fact  compelled,  by  cir- 
cumstances, they  had  gathered  into  one  part  of  the  town. 
Here  in  alleys,  and  streets  as  dirty  and  hardly  wider, 
they  thronged  like  ants. 

It  was  in  this  place  that  Mr.  Asbury  set  up  his  shop, 
and  he  won  the  hearts  of  his  prospective  customers  by 
putting  up  the  significant  sign,  "  Equal  Rights  Barber- 
Shop."  This  legend  was  quite  unnecessary,  because 
there  was  only  one  race  about,  to  patronize  the  place. 
But  it  was  a  delicate  sop  to  the  people's  vanity,  and  it 
served  its  purpose. 

414 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  415 

Asbury  came  to  be  known  as  a  clever  fellow,  and  his 
business  grew.  The  shop  really  became  a  sort  of  club, 
and,  on  Saturday  nights  especially,  was  the  gathering- 
place  of  the  men  of  the  whole  Negro  quarter.  He  kept 
the  illustrated  and  race  journals  there,  and  those  who 
cared  neither  to  talk  nor  listen  to  some  one  else  might  see 
pictured  the  doings  of  high  society  in  very  short  skirts 
or  read  in  the  Negro  papers  how  Miss  Boston  had  enter- 
tained Miss  Blueford  to  tea  on  such  and  such  an  after- 
noon. Also,  he  kept  the  policy  returns,  which  was  wise, 
if  not  moral. 

It  was  his  wisdom  rather  more  than  his  morality  that 
made  the  party  managers  after  a  while  cast  their  glances 
towards  him  as  a  man  who  might  be  useful  to  their  in- 
terests. It  would  be  well  to  have  a  man — a  shrewd, 
powerful  man — down  in  that  part  of  the  town  who  could 
carry  his  people's  vote  in  his  vest  pocket,  and  who  at  any 
time  its  delivery  might  be  needed,  could  hand  it  over  with- 
out hesitation.  Asbury  seemed  that  man,  and  they  settled 
upon  him.  They  gave  him  money,  and  they  gave  him 
power  and  patronage.  He  took  it  all  silently  and  he 
carried  out  his  bargain  faithfully.  His  hands  and  his 
lips  alike  closed  tightly  when  there  was  anything  within 
them.  It  was  not  long  before  he  found  himself  the  big 
Negro  of  the  district  and,  of  necessity,  of  the  town.  The 
time  came  when,  at  a  critical  moment,  the  managers  saw 
that  they  had  not  reckoned  without  their  host  in  choosing 
this  barber  of  the  black  district  as  the  leader  of  his 
people. 

Now,  so  much  success  must  have  satisfied  any  other 
man.  But  in  many  ways  Mr.  Asbury  was  unique.  For 
a  long  time  he  himself  had  done  very  little  shaving — 


416  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

except  of  notes,  to  keep  his  hand  in.  His  time  had  been 
otherwise  employed.  In  the  evening  hours  he  had  been 
wooing  the  coquettish  Dame  Law,  and,  wonderful  to  say, 
she  had  yielded  easily  to  his  advances. 

It  was  against  the  advice  of  his  friends  that  he  asked 
for  admission  to  the  bar.  They  felt  that  he  could  do 
more  good  in  the  place  where  he  was. 

"  You  see,  Robinson,"  said  old  Judge  Davis,  "  it's  jusl 
like  this :  If  you're  not  admitted,  it'll  hurt  you  with  the 
people ;  if  you  are  admitted,  you'll  move  up-town  to  ar< 
office  and  get  out  of  touch  with  them." 

Asbury  smiled  an  inscrutable  smile.  Then  he  whis- 
pered something  into  the  judge's  ear  that  made  the  old 
man  wrinkle  from  his  neck  up  with  appreciative  smiles. 

"  Asbury,"  he  said,  "  you  are — you  are — well,  you 
ought  to  be  white,  that's  all.  When  we  find  a  black  man 
like  you  we  send  him  to  State's  prison.  If  you  were 
white,  you'd  go  to  the  Senate." 

The  Negro  laughed  confidently. 

He  was  admitted  to  the  bar  soon  after,  whether  by 
merit  or  by  connivance  is  not  to  be  told. 

"  Now  he  will  move  up-town,"  said  the  black  commu- 
nity. "  Well,  that's  the  way  with  a  colored  man  when  he 
gets  a  start." 

But  they  did  not  know  Asbury  Robinson  yet.  He 
was  a  man  of  surprises,  and  they  were  destined  to  disap- 
pointment. He  did  not  move  up-town.  He  built  an 
office  in  a  small  open  space  next  his  shop,  and  there 
hung  out  his  shingle. 

"  I  will  never  desert  the  people  who  have  done  so  much 
to  elevate  me,"  said  Mr.  Asbury.  "  I  will  live  among 
them  and  I  will  die  among  them." 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  417 

This  was  a  strong  card  for  the  barber-lawyer.  The 
people  seized  upon  the  statement  as  expressing  a  nobility 
of  an  altogether  unique  brand. 

They  held  a  mass  meeting  and  indorsed  him.  They 
made  resolutions  that  extolled  him,  and  the  Negro  band 
came  around  and  serenaded  him,  playing  various  things 
in  varied  time. 

All  this  was  very  sweet  to  Mr.  Asbury,  and  the  party 
managers  chuckled  with  satisfaction  and  said,  "  That  As- 
bury, that  Asbury  1 " 

Now  there  is  a  fable  extant  of  a  man  who  tried  to  please 
everybody,  and  his  failure  is  a  matter  of  record.  Rob- 
inson Asbury  was  not  more  successful.  But  be  it  said 
that  his  ill  success  was  due  to  no  fault  or  shortcoming 
of  his. 

For  a  long  time  his  growing  power  had  been  looked 
upon  with  disfavor  by  the  colored  law  firm  of  Bingo 
&  Latchett.  Both  Mr.  Bingo  and  Mr.  Latchett  themselves 
aspired  to  be  Negro  leaders  in  Cadgers,  and  they  were 
delivering  Emancipation  Day  orations  and  riding  at  the 
head  of  processions  when  Mr.  Asbury  was  blacking 
boots.  Is  it  any  wonder,  then,  that  they  viewed  with 
alarm  his  sudden  rise  ?  They  kept  their  counsel,  how- 
ever, and  treated  with  him,  for  it  was  best.  They  al- 
lowed him  his  scope  without  open  revolt  until  the  day 
upon  which  he  hung  out  his  shingle.  This  was  the  last 
straw.  They  could  stand  no  more.  Asbury  had  stolen 
their  other  chances  from  them,  and  now  he  was  poach- 
ing upon  the  last  of  their  preserves.  So  Mr.  Bingo  and 
Mr.  Latchett  put  their  heads  together  to  plan  the  down- 
fall of  their  common  enemy. 

The  plot  was  deep  and  embraced  the  formation  of  an 


4i8  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

opposing  faction  made  up  of  the  best  Negroes  of  the 
town.  It  would  have  looked  too  much  like  what  it  was 
for  the  gentlemen  to  show  themselves  in  the  matter,  and 
so  they  took  into  their  confidence  Mr.  Isaac  Morton, 
the  principal  of  the  colored  school,  and  it  was  under  his 
ostensible  leadership  that  the  new  faction  finally  came 
into  being. 

Mr.  Morton  was  really  an  innocent  young  man,  and  he 
had  ideals  which  should  never  have  been  exposed  to  the 
air.  When  the  wily  confederates  came  to  him  with  their 
plan  he  believed  that  his  worth  had  been  recognized,  and 
at  last  he  was  to  be  what  Nature  destined  him  for — a 
leader. 

The  better  class  of  Negroes — by  that  is  meant  those 
who  were  particularly  envious  of  Asbury 's  success — 
flocked  to  the  new  man's  standard.  But  whether  the 
race  be  white  or  black,  political  virtue  is  always  in  a 
minority,  so  Asbury  could  afford  to  smile  at  the  force  ar- 
rayed against  him. 

The  new  faction  met  together  and  resolved.  They  re- 
solved, among  other  things,  that  Mr.  Asbury  was  an 
enemy  to  his  race  and  a  menace  to  civilization.  They 
decided  that  he  should  be  abolished  ;  but,  as  they  couldn't 
get  out  an  injunction  against  him,  and  as  he  had  the 
whole  undignified  but  still  voting  black  belt  behind  him, 
he  went  serenely  on  his  way. 

"  They're  after  you  hot  and  heavy,  Asbury,"  said  one 
of  his  friends  to  him. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  was  the  reply,  "  they're  after  me,  but  after 
a  while  I'll  get  so  far  away  that  they'll  be  running  in 
front." 

"  It's  all  the  best  people,  they  say." 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  419 

"  Yes.  Well,  it's  good  to  be  one  of  the  best  people,  but 
your  vote  only  counts  one  just  the  same." 

The  time  came,  however,  when  Mr.  Asbury's  theory 
was  put  to  the  test.  The  Cadgerites  celebrated  the  first 
of  January  as  Emancipation  Day.  On  this  day  there  was 
a  large  procession,  with  speech-making  in  the  afternoon 
and  fireworks  at  night.  It  was  the  custom  to  concede 
the  leadership  of  the  colored  people  of  the  town  to  the 
man  who  managed  to  lead  the  procession.  For  two  years 
past  this  honor  had  fallen,  of  course,  to  Robinson  Asbury, 
and  there  had  been  no  disposition  on  the  part  of  anybody 
to  try  conclusions  with  him. 

Mr.  Morton's  faction  changed  all  this.  When  Asbury 
went  to  work  to  solicit  contributions  for  the  celebration, 
he  suddenly  became  aware  that  he  had  a  fight  upon  his 
hands.  All  the  better-class  Negroes  were  staying  out  of 
it.  The  next  thing  he  knew  was  that  plans  were  on  foot 
for  a  rival  demonstration. 

"  Oh,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  that's  it,  is  it  ?  Well,  if  they 
want  a  fight  they  can  have  it." 

He  had  a  talk  with  the  party  managers,  and  he  had 
another  with  Judge  Davis. 

"All  I  want  is  a  little  lift,  judge,"  he  said,  "and  I'll 
make  'em  think  the  sky  has  turned  loose  and  is  vomiting 
niggers." 

The  judge  believed  that  he  could  do  it.  So  did  the  party 
managers.  Asbury  got  his  lift.  Emancipation  Day  came. 

There  were  two  parades.  At  least,  there  was  one  parade 
and  the  shadow  of  another.  Asbury's,  however,  was  not 
the  shadow.  There  was  a  great  deal  of  substance  about 
it — substance  made  up  of  many  people,  many  banners, 
and  numerous  bands.  He  did  not  have  the  best  people. 


420  THE  LIFE  AND  WQRKS 

Indeed,  among  his  cohorts  there  were  a  good  many  of 
the  pronounced  rag-tag  and  bobtail.  But  he  had  noise 
and  numbers.  In  such  cases,  nothing  more  is  needed. 
The  success  of  Asbury 's  side  of  the  affair  did  everything 
to  confirm  his  friends  in  their  good  opinion  of  him. 

When  he  found  himself  defeated,  Mr.  Silas  Bingo  saw 
that  it  would  be  policy  to  placate  his  rival's  just  anger 
against  him.  He  called  upon  him  at  his  office  the  day 
after  the  celebration. 

"  Well,  Asbury,"  he  said,  "  you  beat  us,  didn't  you  ?  " 

"  It  wasn't  a  question  of  beating,"  said  the  other  calmly. 
"  It  was  only  an  inquiry  as  to  who  were  the  people — the 
few  or  the  many." 

"  Well,  it  was  well  done,  and  you've  shown  that  you  are 
a  manager.  I  confess  that  I  haven't  always  thought  that 
you  were  doing  the  wisest  thing  in  living  down  here  and 
catering  to  this  class  of  people  when  you  might,  with  your 
ability,  to  be  much  more  to  the  better  class." 

"  What  do  they  base  their  claims  of  being  better  on  ?" 

"  Oh,  there  ain't  any  use  discussing  that.  We  can't 
get  along  without  you,  we  see  that.  So  I,  for  one,  have 
decided  to  work  with  you  for  harmony." 

"  Harmony.     Yes,  that's  what  we  want." 

"  If  I  can  do  anything  to  help  you  at  any  time,  why 
you  have  only  to  command  me." 

"  I  am  glad  to  find  such  a  friend  in  you.  Be  sure,  if  I 
ever  need  you,  Bingo,  I'll  call  on  you." 

"  And  I'll  be  ready  to  serve  you." 

Asbury  smiled  when  his  visitor  was  gone.  He  smiled, 
and  knitted  his  brow.  "  I  wonder  what  Bingo's  got  up 
his  sleeve,"  he  said.  "  He'll  bear  watching." 

It  may  have  been  pride  at  his  triumph,  it  may  have 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  421 

been  gratitude  at  his  helpers,  but  Asbury  went  into  the 
ensuing  campaign  with  reckless  enthusiasm.  He  did  the 
most  daring  things  for  the  party's  sake.  Bingo,  true  to 
his  promise,  was  ever  at  his  side  ready  to  serve  him. 
Finally,  association  and  immunity  made  danger  less  fear- 
some ;  the  rival  no  longer  appeared  a  menace. 

With  the  generosity  born  of  obstacles  overcome,  Asbury 
determined  to  forgive  Bingo  and  give  him  a  chance.  He 
let  him  in  on  a  deal,  and  from  that  time  they  worked 
amicably  together  until  the  election  came  and  passed. 

It  was  a  close  election  and  many  things  had  had  to  be 
done,  but  there  were  men  there  ready  and  waiting  to  do 
them.  They  were  successful,  and  then  the  first  cry  of  the 
defeated  party  was,  as  usual,  "  Fraud  !  Fraud  ! "  The 
cry  was  taken  up  by  the  jealous,  the  disgruntled,  and  the 
virtuous. 

Some  one  remembered  how  two  years  ago  the  registra- 
tion books  had  been  stolen.  It  was  known  upon  good 
authority  that  money  had  been  freely  used.  Men  held 
up  their  hands  in  horror  at  the  suggestion  that  the  Negro 
vote  had  been  juggled  with,  as  if  that  were  a  new  thing. 
From  their  pulpits  ministers  denounced  the  machine  and 
bade  their  hearers  rise  and  throw  off  the  yoke  of  a  cor- 
rupt municipal  government.  One  of  those  sudden  fevers 
of  reform  had  taken  possession  of  the  town  and  threat- 
ened to  destroy  the  successful  party. 

They  began  to  look  around  "them.  They  must  purify 
themselves.  They  must  give  the  people  some  tangible 
evidence  of  their  own  yearnings  after  purity.  They 
looked  around  them  for  a  sacrifice  to  lay  upon  the  altar 
of  municipal  reform.  Their  eyes  fell  upon  Mr.  Bingo. 
No,  he  was  not  big  enough.  His  blood  was  too  scant  to 


422  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

wash  away  the  political  stains.  Then  they  looked  into 
each  other's  eyes  and  turned  their  gaze  away  to  let  it  fall 
upon  Mr.  Asbury*  They  really  hated  to  do  it.  But  there 
must  be  a  scapegoat.  The  god  from  the  Machine  com- 
manded them  to  slay  him. 

Robinson  Asbury  was  charged  with  many  crimes — 
with  all  that  he  had  committed  and  some  that  he  had  not. 
When  Mr.  Bingo  saw  what  was  afoot  he  threw  himself 
heart  and  soul  into  the  work  of  his  old  rival's  enemies. 
He  was  of  incalculable  use  to  them. 

Judge  Davis  refused  to  have  anything  to  do  with  the 
matter.  But  in  spite  of  his  disapproval  it  went  on. 
Asbury  was  indicted  and  tried.  The  evidence  was  all 
against  him,  and  no  one  gave  more  damaging  testimony 
than  his  friend,  Mr.  Bingo.  The  judge's  charge  was 
favorable  to  the  defendant,  but  the  current  of  popular 
opinion  could  not  be  entirely  stemmed.  The  jury 
brought  in  a  verdict  of  guilty. 

"  Before  I  am  sentenced,  judge,  I  have  a  statement  to 
make  to  the  court.  It  will  take  less  than  ten  minutes." 

"  Go  on,  Robinson,"  said  the  judge  kindly. 

Asbury  started,  in  a  monotonous  tone,  a  recital  that 
brought  the  prosecuting  attorney  to  his  feet  in  a  minute. 
The  judge  waved  him  down,  and  sat  transfixed  by  a  sort 
of  fascinated  horror  as  the  convicted  man  went  on. 
The  before-mentioned  attorney  drew  a  knife  and  started 
for  the  prisoner's  dock.  With  difficulty  he  was  re- 
strained. A  dozen  faces  in  the  court-room  were  red  and 
pale  by  turns. 

"  He  ought  to  be  killed,"  whispered  Mr.  Bingo  audibly. 

Robinson  Asbury  looked  at  him  and  smiled,  and  then 
he  told  a  few  things  of  him.  He  gave  the  ins  and  outs 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  423 

of  some  of  the  misdemeanors  of  which  he  stood  accused. 
He  showed  who  were  the  men  behind  the  throne.  And 
still,  pale  and  transfixed,  Judge  Davis  waited  for  his  own 
sentence. 

Never  were  ten  minutes  so  well  taken  up.  It  was  a 
tale  of  rottenness  and  corruption  in  high  places  told 
simply  and  with  the  stamp  of  truth  upon  it. 

He  did  not  mention  the  judge's  name.  But  he  had 
torn  the  mask  from  the  face  of  every  other  man  who 
had  been  concerned  in  his  downfall  They  had  shorn 
him  of  his  strength,  but  they  had  forgotten  that  he  was 
yet  able  to  bring  the  roof  and  pillars  tumbling  about  their 
heads. 

The  judge's  voice  shook  as  he  pronounced  sentence 
upon  his  old  ally — a  year  in  State's  prison. 

Some  people  said  it  was  too  light,  but  the  judge  knew 
what  it  was  to  wait  for  the  sentence  of  doom,  and  he  was 
grateful  and  sympathetic. 

When  the  sheriff  led  Asbury  away  the  judge  hastened 
to  have  a  short  talk  with  him. 

"  I'm  sorry,  Robinson,"  he  said,  "  and  I  want  to  tell 
you  that  you  were  no  more  guilty  than  the  rest  of  us. 
But  why  did  you  spare  me  ?  " 

"  Because  I  knew  you  were  my  friend,"  answered  the 
convict. 

"  I  tried  to  be,  but  you  were  the  first  man  that  I've 
ever  known  since  I've  been  in  politics  who  ever  gave  me 
any  decent  return  for  friendship." 

"  I  reckon  you're  about  right,  judge." 

In  politics,  party  reform  usually  lies  in  making  a  scape- 
goat of  some  one  who  is  only  as  criminal  as  the  rest,  but 
a  little  weaker.  Asbury 's  friends  and  enemies  had  sue- 


424  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

ceeded  in  making  him  bear  the  burden  of  all  the  party's 
crimes,  but  their  reform  was  hardly  a  success,  and  their 
protestations  of  a  change  of  heart  were  received  with 
doubt.  Already  there  were  those  who  began  to  pity  the 
victim  and  to  say  that  he  had  been  hardly  dealt  with. 

Mr.  Bingo  was  not  of  these ;  but  he  found,  strange  to 
say,  that  his  opposition  to  the  idea  went  but  a  little  way, 
and  that  even  with  Asbury  out  of  his  path  he  was  a 
smaller  man  than  he  was  before.  Fate  was  strong 
against  him.  His  poor,  prosperous  humanity  could  not 
enter  the  lists  against  a  martyr.  Robinson  Asbury  was 
now  a  martyr. 

II 

A  year  is  not  a  long  time.  It  was  short  enough  to  pre- 
vent people  from  forgetting  Robinson,  and  yet  long 
enough  for  their  pity  to  grow  strong  as  they  remembered. 
Indeed,  he  was  not  gone  a  yean  Good  behavior  cut 
two  months  off  the  time  of  his  sentence,  and  by  the  time 
people  had  come  around  to  the  notion  that  he  was  really 
the  greatest  and  smartest  man  in  Cadgers  he  was  at 
home  again. 

He  came  back  with  no  flourish  of  trumpets,  but 
quietly,  humbly.  He  went  back  again  into  the  heart  of 
the  black  district.  His  business  had  deteriorated  during 
his  absence,  but  he  put  new  blood  and  new  life  into  it.  He 
did  not  go  to  work  in  the  shop  himself,  but,  taking  down 
the  shingle  that  had  swung  idly  before  his  office  door 
during  his  imprisonment,  he  opened  the  little  room  as  a 
news-  and  cigar-stand. 

Here  anxious,  pitying  custom  came  to  him  and  he 
prospered  again.  He  was  very  quiet.  Up-town  hardly 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  425 

knew  that  he  was  again  in  Cadgers,  and  it  knew  nothing 
whatever  of  his  doings. 

"  I  wonder  why  Asbury  is  so  quiet,"  they  said  to  one 
another.  "  It  isn't  like  him  to  be  quiet."  And  they  felt 
vaguely  uneasy  about  him. 

So  many  people  had  begun  to  say,  "  Well,  he  was  a 
mighty  good  fellow  after  all." 

Mr.  Bingo  expressed  the  opinion  -that  Asbury  was 
quiet  because  he  was  crushed,  but  others  expressed  doubt 
as  to  this.  There  are  calms  and  calms,  some  after  and 
some  before  the  storm.  Which  was  this? 

They  waited  a  while,  and,  as  no  storm  came,  concluded 
that  this  must  be  the  after-quiet.  Bingo,  reassured,  vol- 
unteered to  go  and  seek  confirmation  of  this  conclu- 
sion. 

He  went,  and  Asbury  received  him  with  an  indifferent, 
not  to  say,  impolite,  demeanor. 

"  Well,  we're  glad  to  see  you  back,  Asbury,"  said 
Bingo  patronizingly.  He  had  variously  demonstrated 
his  inability  to  lead  during  his  rival's  absence  and  was 
proud  of  it.  "  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?" 

"  I'm  going  to  work." 

"  That's  right.     I  reckon  you'll  stay  out  of  politics." 

"  What  could  I  do  even  if  I  went  in  ?  " 

"  Nothing  now,  of  course  ;  but  I  didn't  know " 

He  did  not  see  the  gleam  in  Asbury 's  half-shut  eyes. 
He  only  marked  his  humility,  and  he  went  back  swelling 
with  the  news. 

"  Completely  crushed — all  the  run  taken  out  of  him," 
was  his  report. 

The  black  district  believed  this,  too,  and  a  sullen, 
smouldering  anger  took  possession  of  them.  Here  was 


426  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

a  good  man  ruined.  Some  of  the  people  whom  he  had 
helped  in  his  former  days — some  of  the  rude,  coarse 
people  of  the  low  quarter  who  were  still  sufficiently  un- 
enlightened to  be  grateful — talked  among  themselves  and 
offered  to  get  up  a  demonstration  for  him.  But  he  de- 
nied them.  No,  he  wanted  nothing  of  the  kind.  It 
would  only  bring  him  into  unfavorable  notice.  All  he 
wanted  was  that  they  would  always  be  his  friends  and 
would  stick  by  him. 

They  would  to  the  death. 

There  were  again  two  factions  in  Cadgers.  The  school- 
master could  not  forget  how  once  on  a  time  he  had  been 
made  a  tool  of  by  Mr.  Bingo.  So  he  revolted  against 
his  rule  and  set  himself  up  as  the  leader  of  an  opposing 
clique.  The  fight  had  been  long  and  strong,  but  had 
ended  with  odds  slightly  in  Bingo's  favor. 

But  Mr.  Morton  did  not  despair.  As  the  first  of  Jan- 
uary and  Emancipation  Day  approached,  he  arrayed  his 
hosts,  and  the  fight  for  supremacy  became  fiercer  than 
ever.  The  school-teacher  brought  the  school-children 
in  for  chorus  singing,  secured  an  able  orator,  and  the 
best  essayist  in  town.  With  all  this,  he  was  formi- 
dable. 

Mr.  Bingo  knew  that  he  had  the  fight  of  his  life  on  his 
hands,  and  he  entered  with  fear  as  well  as  zest.  He,  too, 
found  an  orator,  but  he  was  not  sure  that  he  was  as  good 
as  Morton's.  There  was  no  doubt  but  that  his  essayist 
was  not.  He  secured  a  band,  but  still  he  felt  unsatisfied. 
He  had  hardly  done  enough,  and  for  the  schoolmaster  to 
beat  him  now  meant  his  political  destruction. 

It  was  in  this  state  of  mind  that  he  was  surprised  to  re- 
ceive a  visit  from  Mr.  Asbury. 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  427 

"  I  reckon  you're  surprised  to  see  me  here,"  said  As- 
bury,  smiling", 

"  I  am  pleased,  I  know."    Bingo  was  astute. 

"  Well,  I  just  dropped  in  on  business." 

"  To  be  sure,  to  be  sure,  Asbury.  What  can  I  do  for 
you?" 

"  It's  more  what  I  can  do  for  you  that  I  came  to  talk 
about,"  was  the  reply. 

"  I  don't  believe  I  understand  you." 

"Well,  it's  plain  enough.  They  say  that  the  school- 
teacher is  giving  you  a  pretty  hard  fight." 

"Oh,  not  so  hard." 

"  No  man  can  be  too  sure  of  winning,  though,  Mr. 
Morton  once  did  me  a  mean  turn  when  he  started  the 
faction  against  me." 

Bingo's  heart  gave  a  great  leap,  and  then  stopped  for 
the  fraction  of  a  second. 

"  You  were  in  it,  of  course,"  pursued  Asbury,  "  but  I 
can  look  over  your  part  in  it  in  order  to  get  even  with 
the  man  who  started  it." 

It  was  true,  then,  thought  Bingo  gladly.  He  did  not 
know.  He  wanted  revenge  for  his  wrongs  and  upon  the 
wrong  man.  How  well  the  schemer  had  covered  his 
tracks !  Asbury  should  have  his  revenge  and  Morton 
would  be  the  sufferer. 

"  Of  course,  Asbury,  you  know  what  I  did  I  did  in- 
nocently." 

"  Oh,  yes,  in  politics  we  are  all  lambs  and  the  wolves 
are  only  to  be  found  in  the  other  party.  We'll  pass 
that,  though.  What  I  want  to  say  is  that  I  can  help  you 
to  make  your  celebration  an  overwhelming  success.  I 
still  have  some  influence  down  in  my  district." 

24 


428  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

'•  Certainly,  and  very  justly,  too.  Why,  I  should 
be  delighted  with  your  aid.  I  could  give  you  a  prom- 
inent place  in  the  procession." 

"  I  don't  want  it ;  I  don't  want  to  appear  in  this  at  all 
All  I  want  is  revenge.     You  can  have  all  the  credit,  but 
let  me  down  my  enemy." 

Bingo  was  perfectly  willing,  and,  with  their  heads  close 
together,  they  had  a  long  and  close  consultation.  When 
Asbury  was  gone,  Mr.  Bingo  lay  back  in  his  chair  and 
laughed.  "  I'm  a  slick  duck,"  he  said. 

From  that  hour  Mr.  Bingo's  cause  began  to  take  on 
the  appearance  of  something  very  like  a  boom.  More 
bands  were  hired.  The  interior  of  the  State  was  called 
upon  and  a  more  eloquent  orator  secured.  The  crowd 
hastened  to  array  itself  on  the  growing  side. 

With  surprised  eyes,  the  school-master  beheld  the  v/onder 
of  it,  but  he  kept  to  his  own  purpose  with  dogged  in- 
sistence, even  when  he  saw  that  he  could  not  turn  aside 
the  overwhelming  defeat  that  threatened  him.  .  But  in 
spite  of  his  obstinacy,  his  hours  were  dark  and  bitter. 
Asbury  worked  like  a  mole,  all  underground,  but  he  was 
indefatigable.  Two  days  before  the  celebration  time 
everything  was  perfected  for  the  biggest  demonstration 
that  Cadgers  had  ever  known.  All  the  next  day  and 
night  he  was  busy  among  his  allies. 

On  the  morning  of  the  great  day,  Mr.  Bingo,  wonder- 
fully caparisoned,  rode  down  to  the  hall  where  the  parade 
was  to  form.  He  was  early.  No  one  had  yet  come.  In 
an  ho'ir  a  score  of  men  all  told  had  collected.  Another 
hour  passed,  and  no  more  had  come.  Then  there  smote 
upon  his  ear  the  sound  of  music.  They  were  coming  at 
last.  Bringing  his  sword  to  his  shoulder,  he  rode  forward 


OF  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  429 

to  the  middle  of  the  street  Ah,  there  they  were.  But — 
but — could  he  believe  his  eyes  ?  They  were  going  in  an- 
other direction,  and  at  their  head  rode — Morton !  He 
gnashed  his  teeth  in  fury.  He  had  been  led  into  a  trap 
and  betrayed.  The  procession  passing  had  been  his — all 
his.  He  heard  them  cheering,  and  then,  oh  1  climax  of 
infidelity,  he  saw  his  own  orator  go  past  in  a  carriage, 
bowing  and  smiling  to  the  crowd. 

There  was  no  doubting  who  had  done  this  thing.  The 
hand  of  Asbury  was  apparent  in  it.  He  must  have  known 
the  truth  all  along,  thought  Bingo.  His  allies  left  him 
one  by  one  for  the  other  hall,  and  he  rode  home  in  a 
humiliation  deeper  than  he  had  ever  known  before. 

Asbury  did  not  appear  at  the  celebration.  He  was  at 
his  little  news-stand  all  day. 

In  a  day  or  two  the  defeated  aspirant  had  further  cause 
to  curse  his  false  friend.  He  found  that  not  only  had  the 
people  defected  from  him,  but  that  the  thing  had  been  so 
adroitly,  managed  that  he  appeared  to  be  in  fault,  and 
three-fourths  of  those  who  knew  him  were  angry  at  some 
supposed  grievance.  His  cup  of  bitterness  was  full  when 
his  partner,  a  quietly  ambitious  man,  suggested  that  they 
dissolve  their  relations. 

His  ruin  was  complete. 

The  lawyer  was  not  alone  in  seeing  Asbury's  hand  in 
his  downfall.  The  party  managers  saw  it  too,  and  they 
met  together  to  discuss  the  dangerous  factor  which,  while 
it  appeared  to  slumber,  was  so  terribly  awake.  They  de- 
cided that  he  must  be  appeased,  and  they  visited  him. 

He  was  still  busy  at  his  news-stand.  They  talked  to 
him  adroitly,  while  he  sorted  papers  and  kept  an  impassive 
face.  When  they  were  all  done,  he  looked  up  for  a  mo- 


430  THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

ment  and  replied,  "  You  know,  gentlemen,  as  an  ex-con- 
vict I  am  not  in  politics." 

Some  of  them  had  the  grace  to  flush. 

"  But  you  can  use  your  influence/'  they  said. 

"  I  am  not  in  politics,"  was  his  only  reply. 

And  the  spring  elections  were  coming  on.  Well,  they 
worked  hard,  and  he  showed  no  sign.  He  treated  with 
neither  one  party  nor  the  other.  "  Perhaps,"  thought  the 
managers,  "he  is  out  of  politics,"  and  they  grew  more 
confident. 

It  was  nearing  eleven  o'clock  on  the  morning  of  elec- 
tion when  a  cloud  no  bigger  than  a  man's  hand  appeared 
upon  the  horizon.  It  came  from  the  direction  of  the  black 
district.  It  grew,  and  the  managers  of  the  party  in  power 
looked  at  it,  fascinated  by  an  ominous  dread.  Finally  it 
began  to  rain  Negro  voters,  and  as  one  man  they  voted 
against  their  former  candidates.  Their  organization  was 
perfect.  They  simply  came,  voted,  and  left,  but  they 
overwhelmed  everything.  Not  one  of  the  party  that  had 
damned  Robinson  Asbury  was  left  in  power  save  old 
Judge  Davis.  His  majority  was  overwhelming. 

The  generalship  that  had  engineered  the  thing  was 
perfect.  There  were  loud  threats  against  the  newsdealer, 
But  no  one  bothered  him  except  a  reporter.  The  re- 
porter called  to  see  just  how  it  was  done.  He  found 
Asbury  very  busy  sorting  papers.  To  the  newspaper 
man's  questions  he  had  only  this  reply,  "  I  am  not  in 
politics,  sir." 

But  Cadgers  had  learned  its  lesson. 


ft 


. 


